


The left and the broken

by Shadowmun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Auror Harry Potter, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Has PTSD, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27367618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun
Summary: After being hit by a curse, auror Harry Potter ends up needing the help of Draco Malfoy, discovering deeper feelings in the process that leave both young man on a crossroad beween recovery from old traumata and gaining new ones.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To all the readers of "I died, but I got better": sorry, got distracted somewhat... Still working on that though, no worries. But I really had to write this... although I am not particularly fond of some of the writing of JK Rowling... (especially the Epilogue, buah!)  
> I hope, you enjoy it, although it is probably rubbish... But it gave me a writer's high, so I won't complain and am absolutely shameless.
> 
> As for my usual disclaimer: no beta, no native, yes, please comment and criticize at will.

When the hex hits Harry’s upper body, there is only two things, he can think. One is a string of very unwizardly swears, the other, that he probably won’t make it.

Truth be told, it is unfortunate, but it was only a matter of time. Harry by far isn’t the most popular person to work with, too focused, too disillusioned, too damaged.

Most people value a personal life over success as an auror. But Harry's personal life is irreparable. The war and the things he had to see and do, saw to that. He has only one thing left to do… make the world a better place for everyone else. Rooting out the evil that is left after the demise of Voldemort.

But this time, he has been to ambitious, and he will pay. He can already feel the hex doing something in his body he cannot quite name yet. He ducks back into the darkness and considers his options. There are few… He won’t be able to get back to any other auror or any safe house, he knows, in time, especially not with pursuers on his heels.

He will not be able to fight it out either… There are more of them than he anticipated. All he can do is run and hope for the best. Hope his body stays upright long enough to get away and arrive somewhere, where he can be found in time.

That conclusion on his mind, he goes for the run, coldly assessing how more and more of his body fails him… The first sign of something happening is his breath getting shallow. Fast, but ineffective. Then, his right arm goes increasingly numb. The feeling creeps down from his shoulder, ever so slowly until he must pouch his wand, unless he wants to lose it.

He ducks into some shrubbery, gaining some moments, to catch his breath. Changes directions then, in hope to fool his pursuers. At this point, he can barely think mor than just “run, run, or you die”.

But there is more to him, than just his conscious thinking. Some inerrable compass guides him, in a way, he would never have guessed. Between the trees, a house appears… impressive size, boastful exterior, yet crumbling and sorrowful. A house of great past and miserable present. He is too focused on getting there, getting help, hopefully, to recognize it. He is too wounded and weak to understand.

He makes it past the surrounding wall, passing by some protective spells, that do not recognize him as a threat. They prickle over his skin and go by, while he pushes on with the last strength of his mind more than his body.

The stairs leading to the main entrance take the last of his power, draining him. He stumbles, when his legs start numbing, hitting the door not with his fists, as planned, but his head, when he falls.

Everything goes dark.

\-----

There is a thumb on the door, which is probably the zenith of Draco’s dull day. Probably another neighbor dropping off a sign of his appreciation for the Malfoy family. Like rotten apples or a load of crap. Somehow, it is easier to deal with it, since his mother has passed away. Narcissa just couldn’t take it anymore and comforting her was a lot harder than just swallowing his pride and clean up.

But he needs to check, in case it is something dangerous. The warding spells are not as reliable as they used to be. He lacks the motivation to maintain them properly. To be honest, he lacks the motivation to do anything. And the need too. Since the Malfoy inheritance was freed after their trials, he will not have to work a single day in his life. And there is no one else left, so there is no point in saving.

When he opens the door, however, he is dumbstruck. Harry Potter! Fucking Auror Harry Potter, lying on his doorstep, looking quite dead. So it _is_ a sign of appreciation for the Malfoys, though one, he could do without easily.

For a moment, he rubs his face with both hands, wiping away the tiredness, hoping against all odds, that the image before him will simply go away. Ignoring the fact, that this very sight makes his heart jump in an anxious, unsteady pace.

Of course, it doesn’t, and of course, his heart won’t change. As if his life wasn’t complicated without the very few remains of back then. Harry Potter. Harry… Potter…

He bends down to check the body for any signs of its origin, when it moves, all by itself, gasping, rolling into a fetal position, unconsciously reacting to an onslaught of pain. Alive. He is alive. And though he is in a very bad shape, he might not be beyond rescue.

Draco tells himself, it is to avoid any governmental suspicion on his behalf, when he picks him up with difficulties. Saving him will help clear any accusations against him personally. But he has a very hard time, _not_ thinking about the small hopeful jump his heart made, when he noticed, there was a chance.

It’s hard work, though, to get Potter inside the house. Aside from the hex slowly killing him, he is in top shape, more so than ever during his time in Hogwarts. Draco’s own weakness has never been more crippling. But somehow he manages to place him on one of the sofas on the ground floor, checking his life signs once more and casting a protective spell, that will halt the hexes destructive effect, until he can figure out, how to reverse it.

When he is done, his body shakes from the exertion, and he desperately longs to pour himself a fire whisky. This is unwise though, so he opts for coffee instead. Afterwards, he places a blanket and second spell on Potter’s, dammit, Harry’s body to alarm him, if something changes and goes for the library.

It is far from as extensive as the Hogwarts one and somewhat lacking in the field of dark arts, since the ministry went over it and took away, what they found offensive. But if he is lucky, he will find something in the healing magic books, or maybe the secret stash, his father hid in one of the guest rooms, before he went to Azkaban.

\-----

Hours later, Draco falls into an uneasy sleep in the all to grand armchair, he had nestled himself into, after finding nothing hopeful. The only way, he could figure out, is keeping Harry – hell, what an unbelievable thing, calling him that – alive, until the spell wears off. Which will be no easy task at all. It would be far easier, if he hadn’t sentenced himself to isolation instead of the constant disgust his mere presence evokes in other people.

But in this situation, there will be no outside help.

At least, when he wakes up to the alarm spell tingling in his stomach, it is, because Harry has started snoring softly, gliding from unconsciousness to sleep under the protection of his stasis spell. He gets up and checks on him, allowing himself some moments of silent contemplation on the non-existent possibilities.

Hell, has Harry always been _that_ handsome, even on the brink of death? Pale, clear-cut, matured beyond his years by pain and loss… a constant shadow of stubble on his chins and jaw… The perfect image of an unhealthy addiction. So dangerous, yet so tempting.

This very moment, when his soul lies bare, Potter annoyingly choses to wake up and wriggle under the weight of the protection spell. “By Merlin!”, Draco snaps, “stay still, or the protection will break.”

Potter forces himself into motionlessness and looks up to him with his so very green eyes. Forcing breath in and out of his body he chokes out: “Talking ok?”

Draco nods, but adds grumpily: “As little as possible.”

Potter swallows softly and coughs: “How did I end up here?” His face barely masks the signs of pain and fear. Fine, it probably would be enough to fool some stranger, but not a person who has watched his every step for years under the pretense to understand the enemy. Not Draco.

“You tell me”, he jokes unhappily and elaborates: “I found you on my doorstep, like… 6 hours ago. No idea, who dropped you there…”

“That was me, I suppose…”, Potter whispers, so hoarse and weak, Draco is tempted to lean towards him. “Got ambushed, hexed, had to flee… Possible, they come for me, so… sorry…” His voice trails off as he gasps for air with his limited ability to breathe.

“I’ll go, check the protection spells…”, Draco decides, as fear washes over Potter’s face. He does not object, but it’s obvious, he would like Draco to stay. He still leaves. It’s necessary, and he can keep his own face straight only for so long. Outside, while walking along the perimeter of Malfoy Manor, the voices in his head scream at him at full volume.

A voice of longing. Desperate due to the obvious proof of Harry’s mortality. A voice of anger, asking, what the hell he was thinking of letting him, him of all people, into the house. A voice of cowardice, asking him to abandon Harry outside, ridding himself of several problems at once. A very small voice of hope, pointing out, that this is his one and only chance to save something precious to him.

This last one is the worst, bringing him close to tears. For what hope is there? Even in the best possible case, all he can do is keep Harry alive, watch him get better, watch him leave. At least knowing, he is alive, but anxious, when it will come to this again, when he will not be there, or worse, be there and unable to do something…

His hands shake, when he is finished with the spells, his breath hiccups with suffocated sobs. He can’t go back like that. He just… can’t face Harry and do all the explaining and watch his face change from careful neutrality to disgust or pity. The latter, probably, because in the end, it is Harry, who seems uncapable of true hatred.

\-----

Eventually he puts himself together just well enough to go and is welcomed with pained coughing. “Malfoy…”, Harry croaks, then: “Draco.”

Without a thought, he is at his side, checking. “It gets worse. My spell isn’t strong enough.”

A grimacing Potter nods forcedly and gasps. “Need to… get help…”

It’s an uneasy thought, but he has already come to the same conclusion, no matter how much he dreads the thought. He still hesitates, while Potter… Harry, dammit, studies his face, one pair of green eyes meeting the other. “It is… this… or… watching me… die…” A pained smile disfigures his face. “If… that’s… what you want…”

Draco glowers, then abruptly turns. “I have no owl right now”, he explains, his back to Harry, to keep his expressions at bay. “And I don’t think, you will survive apparition. The stasis spell won’t hold. So… Broomstick it is.”

Harry doesn’t even say it… ‘Are you fucking serious?’, but it’s there in the way he holds his breath, just for a moment, the way the small movements of pain cease for a second.

“If you have a better idea, now is the moment”, Draco growls defiantly. Harry has none. Which is bad… Despite his sarcastic tone, he really hoped… Two grown man, one of them severely wounded, on one broomstick is not his brightest imagination of the future.

But neither can Harry fly alone, nor can he leave him. Especially not with the protection spells still somewhat iffy. Draco has learned not to trust himself anymore since the war.

So, broomstick it is.

He brings his somewhat outdated model to the hall, where Harry lies on the sofa and heaves him onto it with a spell, placing himself behind it, encasing him carefully, so he cannot fall.

A mouthful of Harry’s smell hits him like a wall. Damn… The reaction is visceral, fast and true. Him inhaling, marveling, wondering, just for a second, before conscious thought is back to stop him right there.

And if Harry Potter wasn’t so damn perceptive, that would be it. Instead, he feels his passenger stiffening, turning his head questioningly, checking on him… This is going to be hell for more than one reason.

\-----

Surprisingly, the ride is better than anticipated. Maybe it is because most of the time he is barely conscious. Maybe it is just the warmth and the slim light of hope. And maybe it is Draco. The heart wants, what the heart wants. No matter how impossible.

Probably it is imagination, when sometimes, in the smallest of moments, he thinks, Draco might feel the same. Might want to… reconcile.

Harry concentrates on more solid parts of his perception. The arrival at St. Mungo’s, a bed, a healer, who actually knows what he is doing. Harry still might not make it, he knows. The numbness has been replaced by a burning sensation over the night and each breath feels like a stab into his chest. But the chances have definitely improved. He is slightly worried that Draco simply disappears, broomstick and all, but feels to bad to hold on to the thought. He will… deal with that… later… later… there will be time… He thinks, falling asleep against all odds.

\-----

“Malfoy, where is he? Where is Draco Malfoy?”, Harry almost shouts, since no one seems inclined to answer his questions. He has been awake for almost two hours now, and getting increasingly angry, when finally, finally a fellow Auror steps through the door. Corner, it is… not exactly Harry’s favorite, but not a bad one either.

“Calm down”, he smirks and shakes his head offhandedly. “You gave us quite a scare, you know?”

Harry doesn’t care. Doesn’t dial into this path of conversation either. “Where is Draco Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake?”

“In the ministry, in custody…”, Corner mumbles insecurely, furrowing his brow. "Parole violation, possible attack on an auror.”

He flinches from the noise of Harry grinding his teeth. “I’d be dead, if he had attacked me!” It’s not a scream. Not even very loud, but the steel-like quality of each single word could cut Corner into pieces. “See, that he is released, and make sure, he gets to talk to me.” He is not usually so keen on giving orders. He is not even Corner’s superior, technically. That doesn’t change the fact, that he expects him to obey to the letter. When Harry is talking in this tone… even Hermione flinches.

Hell, even, the minister does, sometimes around.

Corner doesn’t even put up a fight. He asks the questions he was tasked to do, brings the information he is supposed to drop off and leaves.

It takes an hour after that to bring Draco Malfoy back to his bedside.

\-----

“So… what now?”, Draco hisses more than says, although, he silently admits to himself, it’s just for show. He isn’t mad. He is just worried. And strangely relieved to see Harry’s face in a different, less pale, color.

“I wanted to thank you properly.”, Harry answers, his open face full of unsaid words, unwanted meanings. Hell, Draco really starts seeing things, warns himself silently, he should stop right there. And Harry fucking Potter watches… all to perceptive. Again. Shit. And fucking… of course, he thinks, dismissing the image from his mind – forcefully so.

“Yeah, so… you’re welcome. That’s it?”

A shaking of the head. A vague gesture. A long, measured breath. “No… It’s not.” A swallow. All those little hints of something, one after the other like pearls on a string. Draco’s own fascination makes him skittish and uneasy. It also makes him silent.

“I… wanted to say… If you need something… I mean, you really shouldn’t live like that… No offence, though…”, Harry adds.

Draco scoffs involuntary: “You babble.”

They share a look. “I do.” How hard can it be to have a proper conversation? Without all that awkward pauses full of unsaid words?

“I just…” Harry takes a quick look around them and leans forward, his lips touching Draco’s for the blink of an eye. Then… “Sorry… And… Thank you. For everything.”

He cannot do that, now, can he? And more important: He cannot leave it at that, either! This is a mess, and Draco really knows the meaning of the word! How is he supposed to go on after that, how is he supposed to… His thoughts race around, going in circles like a pair of mad dogs, never reaching a conclusion, never leading anywhere.

The noise of Harry leaning back on his pillow and exhaling forcefully, brings reality back. “Sorry, I… Must have… misread you.”

The hell you have, Draco thinks, and takes these lips for one single, perfect moment, before jerking back, folding his arms, putting distance between them. “See you around, Potter.” He puts all his penned-up frustration into the growl, as if it could erase everything else and leaves.

He is not fleeing. He is stomping out in well-deserved anger. He is retrieving, what is his, and then, he is going. Fleeing. Of course.

\-----

How long has it been, since the bell last rang? Must have been, when the courier from the ministry came, with an official apology. Two days? Four? One loses count, when every day is like the other. One also gets very jumpy, when something unexpected happens. Like… the bell.

Oh… the… bell.

Slowly, Draco removes himself from the armchair in the library, his most favorite, no, his only remaining favorite place in the world and goes for the door. He contemplates, sending the elf and going back, only to remind himself, he released the dumb creature. He couldn’t stand its scared, distressful expression. It was useless anyways.

So… open the door, you dumbass. Do it yourself.

He does and wants to close it again in one go. “Potter.”

The dickhead has no dignity, just shrugs.

“You already thanked me…”, Draco rasps, pressing his lips together in defiance, once the words are out.

Another shrug, and then: “We should talk.” Wow, that’s news. “I… am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I… apologize.” A soft, cringy cough. “You… can do better.”

With fascination, Draco watches his tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, his teeth biting the lower lip, him, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Without thinking, he exclaims: “How so?”, and snorts.

The word is out. He cannot simply catch it and push it back into his throat, he cannot suffocate it or silence it or whatever… There is no way out of this but through. “How can I do better than fucking Harry Potter, the fucking Golden Boy of the goddamn fucking country? The auror, the savior, the fucking, everything? How can I at all? People despise me, hate me, ignore me. How, can I fucking do better, pray tell?”

Harry doesn’t look into his eyes. He studies his own shoes elaborately. “You don’t know, what it’s like. I… don’t want to put you through that. Or anybody, really.”

There are goddamn tears in his freakishly beautiful eyes. “Waking up every night, with me. Several times, maybe. Handling days of radio silence. When I am gone and left no message. Or even, when I am there. Putting up with all the… anger. Fear. Shame.”

Harry pushes him away, softly. He does not resist, but uses the momentum, opening the door, letting Harry in. What the hell is he doing?

“I am broken, Draco. You can do better…”, he says, now very hushed, ready to flee, like a wild animal, but stepping in, nevertheless. He even flinches at the noise of the closing door.

It’s maddening. The two idiots, they are. Standing two meters apart, hands shaking from emotion. Unable to touch, unable to take a single step. Harry looks broken. The signs were all there… he had attributed them to the hex. The purple circles below Harry’s eyes. The languid posture. The carefully calculated show of emotions, hiding his true self behind an acceptable mask.

It must be hard to keep the image intact. No wonder, he doesn’t do relationship.

“Stay”, he mumbles, unsure. “No one can see you here.” His own lip is trembling, but he dares not turn away, in case, Harry might break down.

“You can.”

“I am broken, too. Takes one to know one.” With that, it is settled for now. Strange, how the mere presence of another broken soul changes the whole atmosphere of the place, from mournful to almost serene. Because of Harry Potter… of all people.

\-----

They don’t talk about the kiss. They don’t talk about the moment of weakness, at the manor’s front door. The don’t talk about feelings at all. Yet, there is a strange comfort in the coming and going. Every morning, Harry leaves. Apparates to whatever work he choses for the day. Draco never cared about the condition of the manor. Not since his mother’s death. He cares now. He uses the time to bring things back to normal. Small things, at first. Airing the rooms, changing the sheets. Then bigger. Fixing the broken railing here. Renewing the protection spells.

Harry comes back in the evening, sometimes late at night. He never says a word. They eat. Together. Divided by the table. They never touch. They sleep. It isn’t healthy. It really isn’t. It still helps. When either of them wakes up, screaming, there is an unspoken pact to meet in the library. Whoever comes first, lights the fire, the other gets them a drink. Often, they wake up, in the morning, Draco huddled in the armchair, Harry coiled up on the impressive fur in front of the fireplace.

One day, Harry is hurt again. Far from badly, just a few bruises on his face. They go directly to the library. They drink, they watch the fire burn down. “Draco…”, Harry eventually whispers, barely audible.

“Hm?”

Harry stands up, wooden, like a puppet, walks over. His hand touches Draco’s tentatively, their fingers interlace. Neither leans closer, and yet, their lips meet. Ever so carefully, as if something might break. Harry’s lips taste of blood and sweat and fire whisky.

‘I love you’, Draco thinks. It’s not said. ‘Me too’, isn’t either.

He moves, closer, lowers himself, until they are kneeling on the floor, face to face, one hand thoroughly fixed within the other’s, squeezing, in fear, he might disappear, the other hand aimlessly exploring the body before him. They don’t break the kiss; they merely shift to catch some breath.

Harry is insecure, but tender. Draco more courageous, not because he does not fear, but because this might be his only chance. Reluctantly his hand ducks under Harry’s shirt, caressing the muscular back.

He can feel him flinching, when he hits more, better concealed bruises.

“Let me see them.”, he squeezes out, between two kisses, and Harry gets rid of his shirt. There they are, blue and black and angry. He flinches, at the sight and so does Harry, until he whispers: “You are safe with me.”

What a strange thing to say. And still, it’s all true and all helpful. Harry can relax into it… Lying down on the fur again, guided by Draco’s hands, caressed, kissed. His breaths are so deep and even, Draco assumes, he fell asleep, until he turns around, seeking Draco’s eyes.

“Let me touch you, too. Please.” Strange, how it is all emotionless, soft, but normal, and still close to begging. Draco nods, and lifts his own shirt over his head. By now, it is visible, he has not only been taking better care of the manor. He can see the joyous surprise in Harry’s eyes. He laughs out and coughs, smiling. “I believe, it is highly inappropriate to tell you, you look stunning.”

Now, Draco laughs out too. “Any more observations?”, he asks mockingly and slings a leg over Harry, effectively pining him on the floor. He would never have dared to hope, there would be enough trust between them, to see him close his eyes on that, leaning back, presenting his defenseless throat.

Draco takes the hint and kisses, bites, strokes the tender flesh. He catches Harry’s earlobe between his teeth and breathes into it, until he can feel the goosebumps on Harry’s arms. From this, there is no return. They embrace the feeling of skin on skin, of touching and kissing and everything.

They do not get out of their pants. Yet. This isn’t sex. This is… something else. Something completely different. Something, so important, they do not even think about sex, yet. And when it is done, they sleep together, hands interlaced, foreheads pressed together, as if afraid to lose the other, if they don’t touch. Because they are.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a hopeful start, Draco and Harry stumble over the scars of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still to tempted, sorry... I have no idea, where this is going and if or when I am able to post another chapter, but I love this complicated love story...

Being around Harry changes a lot. And it’s mostly not the obvious things, for he is barely ever there, saying, he tries not to bother anyone. No matter how much Draco wants to be bothered.

But.

He starts reading the newspapers again. He tells himself, he at least wants to know, if they are found out and every damn stupid yellow press paper titles about them. That’s not even half the truth. He reads to make sure, he finds out, if something happens… If Harry won’t come back. Surely, they would write about it, if the famous Harry Potter got himself killed, would they?

And then… he notices. And it starts to irk him. And the more it irks him, the more he notices. They are all but forgotten. Harry is forgotten. New heroes fill the front page, new stars rise and fall, new wizards and witches get their fifteen minutes. They aren’t not found out, because they are careful. But because nobody cares.

A grumpy auror with heroic past and miserable present existence is far from a top seller. Especially, one, so secretive about everything. Those marveling their sudden popularity and oversharing everything are so much easier targets.

Maybe they will title Harry’s death. Maybe not even that. And it makes Draco angry. Angrier than anything since… well, since the war. There is nothing to do about it, but it sheds a clear light on all the reasons for Harry’s quirks. He has had his brush with popularity and found himself disliking the taste.

Draco honors his wish for privacy and gets the security of the Manor up to date. New protection spells, new owls, several potential escape routes, including an entrance to the flea network.

He will never again have to make the decision to try something potentially fatal in order to get help. He notices though, he feels never safe enough anymore. He has something to lose after all. He ponders additional measures, although he knows, it’s beside the point.

Harry won’t get hurt here. Not anymore. He will, outside. At the job. And there is no way to stop him from putting himself into danger. Even Harry knows, this is a very unhealthy coping mechanism, but he will not stop. Cannot stop. He is as addicted to pain as he is to Draco. Maybe more.

\-----

“Why don’t you get help?” A difficult, dangerous, cruel question, hanging there in the dark.

It is the library again, where else could it be, the fire almost gone out. Both of them, sitting on the fur, facing each other, mostly lost in their own thoughts.

“And why don’t you?”

It is unimportant, who started it. It was on both their minds. Each of them worries, the other might tip and fall. Either is a catastrophe waiting to happen. Neither tries to fix himself.

“Well…”, sighs Draco. “I am forgotten, and I prefer to remain thus. I cannot stand the look on their self-righteous faces. Look, there is the criminal, the man who put our sons and daughters in danger by opening Hogwarts to the Death eaters. The man who killed Dumbledore.”

“That one’s not even true!”, Harry interrupts angrily.

“How would you know?”, Draco snaps, jerking back from the mocking stab, the second it flies out of his mouth. “Sorry, I… just… sorry.”

Harry raises his hand, strokes Draco’s upper arm and sighs, otherwise undisturbed. “I get it. But… it’s only local. There will be people, who don’t even know you, who will help you without having a second look.”

He bites his lip, embracing the pain, because it’s easier than facing the fact, that Draco would leave. Needed to leave, to find someone like that. He could do it. He would do it. Even when it hurts. Just to make him feel better.

“And you?” Draco takes the hand, caressing him and places light, breathy kisses on the fingertips. “Can’t be a lack of therapists and healers, willing to help the famous Harry Potter.”

Harry chuckles. “It’s just that. At least one part. I am a trophy, nothing more. It’s not actually about me.”

“What else…?”

He takes his hand back, places it on his knee beside the other, watches the open palms. It takes several tries to go on. “I… cannot be weak. Dare not. If… word gets around, it will be full Rita Skeeter again. And the remaining death eaters would get personalized invitation…” He shrugs, ignoring the lump forming in his throat and exhales softly. “Plus… I… I get the feel…” Coughing, embarrassment, insecurity. A soul laid bare, before Draco, who is taken aback by that amount of trust. “I feel, it is about forgetting. I cannot forget. I cannot. No one else seems to remember. I mean… there are those people, who died for me. And… innocent bystanders… and… during the battle… I just… No one else seems to remember. No one else seems to care!”

He is crying now. The tears flowing down like small streams, no sobbing, no hiccup, just naked emotion. He’s not asking for help either, keeps his distance, only his fingers are back, lying still on Draco’s lower leg. Without things to say, he looks away, trying to regain composure and inevitable failing.

Draco clenches his fists. He knows, this is, what he signed up for. Harry warned him. Harry told him, not to. He should be prepared. But he feels so useless, so helpless, so stupid. What can he say? What can he do? Harry is falling apart, and he does not even dare touch him. Yeah… he can do better. If only he knew how.

Abruptly he jumps to his feet, paces the room, hits the wall with one fist and growls wordlessly. Tries to make up his mind. Tries to gain footing. And as suddenly, as the frustration was there, it is gone. The strength of anger, even directed at himself, kept him upright, now he feels weak, lowers himself to Harry’s side. “I am really bad at feelings. And worse at advice”, he mumbles, and still reaches out, embracing the other from behind, holding him, bracing him. Harry leans into it, thankful for the warmth.

“But you are here.”

Draco nods to it and starts tracing the line of Harry’s neck with small kisses. “I don’t want you to forget… just to… relax.”, he whispers, in between the kisses, words spread out and broken to pieces. “I dare not hope, I can heal you. But you definitely help me, get my shit together.”

Harry turns, unbelieving, Draco turns him back, breathing down the nape of his neck, his hands gliding over Harry’s arms. “I not back to old shape”, he admits, emphasizing it with a small, mocking bite to the jaw, “but I will get there.”

“I am barely there…”

“And I hate it… change that.” They share a small laughter, while Harry wipes his face and Draco watches in fascination.

“I am not sure, I can.” When he now turns, Draco does not hinder him, feeling, he will be awarded with a kiss worth it. He is not wrong, but it’s the intensity of squeezing hands, clinging to his back, that makes it perfect. It says: ‘I love you’, where Harry can’t. It says: ‘Don’t leave me. I am afraid.’ And it says, below all that, and so rewarding: ‘you are doing this right.’

This of all the things. This single moment after a lifetime of near misses turned mess-ups. Lucky him.

The thing is… he _is_ lucky. Trust like that is not simply given. It is earned. Even from Harry, the most open person, he has ever known. And this Harry is dead. Or in hiding, from a world to cruel to leave him intact. The remaining shell of a man is even more distrusting than your usual adult wizard.

Raw, unfiltered truth does simply not happen. Or didn’t. Until now.

Draco could cry for the beauty of it.

So, he pulls Harry closer, until their bodies meet and create a bubble of safety to seek shelter in.

\-----

He wakes up to small kisses, peppered over his face and neck, hands roaming his body and a smiling face in the morning light. “You still here?”, he exclaims, earning him a guilty little chuckle.

“Yeah… I thought… After you got all the crap from this… relationship, you can at least reap the benefits too.”

‘Who is this guy and what did he do with Harry?’ Draco thinks, relaxing to the touches. He is not usually a morning person, but this… he could certainly get used to waking up to this…

It feels wonderful to lean back, let Harry carefully undress him and find him kissing his way over his chest and abdomen. His pulse flutters, when Harry dives deeper. They… haven’t talked about it. Haven’t… even looked. Neither of them. And though Draco had at least some encounters, he suddenly feels terribly unprepared. Harry, in his damned perfect perception senses Draco tensing up and stops. Dammit. He… fucking… wants… this. He just… does not really know how.

This is so different from a fast hand job in the dark or someone blowing him as a treat. This is fucking everything. He can’t mess this up. And he is so bloody afraid.

Because his mind is blank, and finds no words, he just… strips. Gets rid of his pants and underwear, blushing to Harry’s intense stare. The whole situation now feels, like he is observing it through a looking glass. He sees… everything. The stubble on Harry’s jaw, the crinkles on his shirt, the fond smile on his lips. He hears… his breath, his heart beating, the rustling of his clothes. And he feels it. The scratchy softness of the fur beneath him, the warmth of Harry’s body, close, but not touching. He can even smell him, the sweat of the night, the remnants of their fire whiskey and a strange dry smell, that is all Harry. When he reaches for him, Harry declines, removes himself, much to Draco’s frustration. “Come on…”, he blurts out and pouts jokingly.

“Draco, I…” There is this impossibly long pause. “I am not sure we are ready for this.”

The fuck, we are! Draco reaches for him, again. “Stop overthinking it!” He helps Harry undressing as well and pulls him down. A good thing, the library is still warm from the evening fire.

At first, they kiss again, though it’s different, with their bodies pressed together with no more barriers between them. With the chance to touch, whatever he likes. And he likes a lot. Hair, face, neck, shoulders. Chest, stomach, legs. Well trained, but not exceedingly muscular. Enough hair, on the chest, stomach, legs, no fur, though. With every touch, he gets more courageous, wants more of this.

He could drown in the very feeling of this body pressed against him, smiling tenderly for the obvious signs of arousal he uncovers. Every stuttered breath, every soft moan and whimper is another victory to be conquered, another sweet treat.

He finds the same insecurities, the same lack of confidence and experience in his partner in crime as in himself. It should be scary. It isn’t. Harry won’t judge him. They will work it out. And having him so open, trustful, metaphorically and literally naked… it pays for years and years of longing.

Harry, brave, patient Harry is now breathless, speechless, defenseless. Overwhelmed by the moment. He isn’t prepared either. He just reacts.

It’s clumsy, them, trying to find their way. And it ends all too fast, with them rutting against each other, not really doing it together… only doing it with each other. It’s still so much, Draco can’t stop grinning, until his cheeks hurt. They will have to talk, and soon, this act is a good warning, that some things don’t just work by instinct and accident. But that’s fine.

He can do that.

\-----

Harry lives for the hunt. For the moments, when the culprit is exposed, his crime obvious, the coins on the table. When it is all about him and them and ability and knowledge. He hates the hours and hours of work that come before that.

The watching, researching. Finding small tracks and trails and remnants. Following the money. Asking people. Mostly, waiting for the next move.

He hates this inability to do something with all his guts. Days, sometimes weeks, where there is really nothing specific to do and his mind starts wandering. To battlefields, no one seems to notice anymore. To ghosts, long gone and forgotten. Lately… to an old acquaintance.

He can’t believe, he is doing that. And he dares not believe, it’s working out. Thinking of him, of Draco, let’s his heart beat more painfully, clenches his stomach more intense, than thinking of the battles and the dead. And that’s something, for someone, living most of his life in the past, if he likes it or not.

Unfortunately, Harry knows exactly, what it is. Anxiety. Raw and primal fear.

He had his share of willing partners, a long row of one night stands, especially after the war ended, everyone, man or woman, proud to be chosen, everyone but a fading image. Harry had nothing to lose, wanted nothing to lose. He couldn’t take it, to lose more than he already had.

When they others, Ron, Hermione, Neville, moved on, finding happy lives elsewhere, of course, still caring for him, but… distant… preoccupied: he remained. Unwilling to link his life to someone else, lest they might get hurt. Unable to live, barely existing.

In the beginning, when he finished school, trained as auror, started his job, he still thought, it would be temporary. But his solitude went on, stretched over years, until it became obvious, it wouldn’t change anymore. Until it did.

And now… Hell, he doesn’t know, what to do. He has been on his own for so long… even before the war, at least a decade, probably more… He is just… out of practice.

And lingering on the thoughts, when he should be working, doesn’t help at all. That kind of stuff gets you killed, which is certainly opposed to the matter at hand.

Fuck… He finds back to reality just in time. Someone is screaming. A curse bolts aimlessly into the sky and fades. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

It’s two of them, one defender. A woman… a staff member of the bureau of aurors. While he watches them seizing her wand and wrangling her arms behind her back, he silently assesses them. The hoods, they wear are not very helpful, but the movements are. Men. One older, but heavier, one younger and nimble.

Focus. Look at the details. Who is the bigger threat?

A growling noise. Familiar. Dangerous. Greyback. Damn. Means, the younger is probably a werewolf too. Short look to the sky. Good… No full moon. Still bad.

He can take the younger wolf. Unchanged he isn’t much more than a determined human. Greyback, though…

But there is no time to question his abilities. He will have to make do.

He sends a flashing signal to the sky, both for distracting the werewolves and asking for help and runs towards the defenseless young woman. She is not a fast thinker. She should be running, as soon as the werewolves turn away, but is petrified. Harry needs to push her out of the way, while sending his first spell towards Greyback.

After this, he has no more capacity for distinct thoughts. He is all fight and run, dodge and attack. Something in his mind keeps him moving, just fast enough, although barely, avoiding Greyback’s fangs, though not his fists and elbows and knees.

It’s a close thing, he wouldn’t have survived, if it wasn’t so close to the headquarters. But when other aurors appear (he is too occupied to take notice, who exactly), the werewolves realize, their chances are shrinking and flee, leaving him behind.

Harry falls to the ground, coughs, vomits, his ribs creaking, his arms shaking from the task to hold him up. This was a close call. Again. When he is done with the initial onslaught of adrenaline, he sits back and breathes slowly. He really needs to stop this. One day, his luck will run out and then, he is toast.

He can already imagine the reproachful look on Draco’s face, if he sees the bruises. For a moment, he ponders staying away… but really, since when did he turn coward? And it will take days, until these are fading, and that only, when he can find a decent healer. By then he will be an emotional wreck.

Fellow aurors help him up. Ask, if he needs something. Bring him back to the headquarters for an interview… for evidence. He will be late. Fuck it…

\-----

“You never asked me, what I do, when I am away…” Harry swallows and watches Draco over the dining table. It was easy to avoid discovery until now. They rarely touch outside the library. He cannot allow himself to limp, that’s all.

Draco shrugs. “You didn’t seem in the mood. You didn’t ask me either.”

That bring out a big grin in Harry’s face. “Draco… I can see it… don’t have to ask…”

“So can I.”

It’s hard not to flinch. He can’t. He won’t. Can he?

“So… where _have_ you been? What _have_ you done?” Draco’s voice is carefully neutral, though his gaze is most certainly not. The suspicion is palpable. And there he was, thinking, he might get away with it…

He stays silent, awaits the inevitable.

“Show me.”

“No… you… no…” He stands up, withdraws from the table.

“Harry… Your movements are jerky and tense. Whom do you think, you are fooling here?” He doesn’t sound angry… not even worried… maybe resigned. That hurts the most.

“Can’t we just… pretend…” This is futile, stupid… fucked. He knows it. He knows that Draco knows… He only ever says it, because he must. Just now, he needs to be stupid, fucked. He has no idea, what he expects from Draco, but just now, he is as childish as he needs to be. Or else… he will break down. He will… what? Flee? Fight? Cry? Even Harry doesn’t know, what’s right now. How can Draco?

“We already pretend to much. We pretend, we don’t care. We pretend, it doesn’t happen. We pretend, we are not here. We fucking pretend everything. That doesn’t make it any less real. Any less hurting… We can’t go on like that. _You_ can’t go on like that.”

Why in all hell’s name, are there tears again? He isn’t much of a crier, usually. Last time, he remembers crying, when Draco wasn’t involved, he was still in school. And they just won’t go away. Harry clenches his hands around the back of the chair, digging his nails into the wood. “I…” don’t know, what I am doing here… I was already gone, if you weren’t so infuriatingly, dangerously important to me. I don’t know, what to do.

With only a couple of steps, Draco bridges over the distance between them, but leaves the barrier of the chair. Raises his hands, but lets them hover, without touching. “You are hurting yourself.”

It is true. His hands are aching. Carefully he opens them and turns them around, watches the lines of the chair fading. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He isn’t even looking. He doesn’t want to see Draco’s face right now. This is the end. Will be. Must be. He is leaving, he knows. He can’t do it anymore.

“I am so done with you constantly thinking, you need to safe the world. Old Dumbledore did fuck you up just as badly as Voldemort me.”

That certainly catches Harry’s attention. He looks up, gritting his teeth. Closes his eyes, opens them again. Still no anger in Draco’s eyes. No fear, no accusation. He fights, chews on all the words, that won’t come out, shakes in the tension between touching and fleeing, doing neither. He can feel his face working. He is stuck, and the silence grows, tumorous and scary. “Do… do… you want me gone.” He whispers. His voice is shaking by the mere thought.

“The opposite. I want you here. Not just brushing by. Not pretending. Lying to protect me. Here.”

\-----

The world is spinning. He has pushed to hard. Soon, he will be alone. Harry will go, and none the wiser. He will leave and get himself killed. And Draco will stand by and see, just as usual.

But that can’t happen. Not now. Not after all this…

“Library?”, he whispers, almost inaudibly. It’s not really a question. More like an offer.

Harry collects himself. Pulls the walls back up. No more hurt to be seen in his face than in a random stranger. Instead a badly concealed bruise forming on his left cheekbone.

Draco doesn’t move. Although he suggested it, Harry does. Takes his hand and pulls him away with him. As if there is something there, in the library, some strange spell, sheltering, protecting, giving them the strength to bare themselves to the other.

This time, Harry sits down in the armchair, a place usually reserved for Draco. “I wish, I knew, how to leave you.” His voice is breaking, though his calm face is not. “I cannot stand the thought of seeing you hurt.”

“And I am supposed to?”, Draco snarls, his hands digging into the armrests.

“This?” A general gesture over his body, then a sad smile. “This is just pain. I am used to pain. I can handle it. No need to worry.”

But he does. He does fucking worry. All the time. He is just as scared as on the worst days of the war. Just as scared as when he was tasked to do the impossible. “Yeah, until one day, you can’t and then… then you are dead. This is, how you are leaving me.”

Harry looks up, his fingers brush over Draco’s well-shaven face. “I don’t want to.” Again, face calm, voice laden with emotion. His eyes… swimming in an ocean of grief yet lacking the shine of uncried tears. This is it. This is, what enthralls Draco. The boy was just a plain good guy. The man is _made_ of contradictions, the edges of the cracks clearly visible, if you dare to look. It’s complicated. He is complicated. Never just goes the easy way, never just slips.

Constantly questions the world around him. Constantly questions himself. This is, what it did to him. It is not merely the dead. It’s the messed-up game, Dumbledore played, penning him against the fucking dark lord, when he was just a child, clearly to young to bear such responsibility.

What the hell was the old man thinking? Voldemort at least admitted being the bad guy. Discarding his followers easily as needed. Dumbledore was supposed to be good. To protect Harry. Wasn’t he?

But here they are, again, brushing topics, so fucked up beyond recognition, he does not even dare think about them, even less talk.

This isn’t who they are, talking, Draco thinks into the stretching silence.

On instinct, he kneels, embraces Harry’s legs, strokes the small of his back, lets himself get pulled down, until his brow rests on Harry’s thighs. He can feel him play with his blond locks.

“I just… don’t know how.” It is strangely disconnected with everything else. And still… looks like progress. Suddenly, Draco is overjoyed, he didn’t interrupt, didn’t blast his frustration into Harry’s face. He would have taken it; he wouldn’t have been angry or even sad. He has already taken too much to just stop now. But it’s better that way.

Maybe he will stay a little longer, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco seeks help. And discovers some truths. Pleasant and unpleasant ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a lot of fun writing this, it is so relaxing, just writing angst and emotion and stuff instead of having to research more historically and canonically correct stories.   
> It takes me by surprise, you all enjoy it too, but only makes it better, if I am not alone.  
> PS: I starve for comments. ;)

Morning has come and gone. The house is empty, once again. Harry left before dawn. Probably not for work. Wasn’t even in his room, hasn’t even changed his clothes.

Draco allows himself some self-pity and some hot chocolate. A new house-elf could be useful after all… At least, he wouldn’t have to do all the choirs himself. And all the worrying. Would be a nice change to see someone else out of his mind. Or maybe not.

Maybe he should finally stop making others miserable, for surely, that is not the way to feel better himself. The last months, the cruel nights, when they argued aside, where the best of his life since school. They are something to hold onto. To fight for.

If only he knew how.

What he knows, however, is, that he won’t be able to figure it out on his own. He doesn’t even now, what messed them up worse, the battles or the brainwashing. The dead or the living. Whatever shadow cast upon them needs to be lifted.

Of course, there will be no happy ever after. The likes of them aren’t destined for that. But a little good here or there must be possible. And some place for Harry to rest. Looks like it is time to call on some favors, not necessarily his. Harry wouldn’t use them anyways, and there are a lot more people willing to help Harry, than he thinks, no matter, who alone he feels, most of the time.

Draco must be discrete of course. Honor Harry’s wishes to remain out of sight. He has still a lot of ideas… But his best shot, right now… Well, she probably isn’t happy to see Draco. If she is willing to meet him at all. But still… She is influential, knows the whole story, didn’t always approve…

He carefully choses a quill and a sheet of paper and starts writing, in his best schoolboy hand: To Minerva McGonagall…

\----

Halloween is always a bad time for Harry. Starting with the year of his birth, of course. And since Voldemort’s death each year, it gets worse, with ex-death eaters and international pure-blood believers coming together in one big violent party.

  
Even less workaholic aurors do double shifts around this time of the year and Harry is practically constantly on the edge. So badly, that this year, the leading auror forcibly paired Harry with Camina Feathering, to ensure, last year doesn’t repeat. Well… as if…

  
Of course, it is the usual freak show, lots of small riots, fights, screaming, probable later appeals to the wizarding gamut. With no deaths on either side, Harry counts it as a win. Despite the fact, that he won’t be home until a few days into November, the mere possibility, the mere existence of a place, he could call that, calms him.

  
And what an irony, that it is Malfoy Manor of all things… Narcissa would probably rotate in her grave, and if Lucius ever found out… Well… they will figure something out, long before he can leave Azkaban.

  
Something still scratches at the back of his mind, when he finally arrives at the small camping bed he keeps in his office, just in case. He looks out of the window and there it is… it is not full moon, just yet…

  
His mind goes back to the fight with the two werewolves, some weeks ago and he clenches his fists. Nobody will believe him the worst is yet to come. As usual, they will relax after this night and disregard his advice. Because he doesn’t sleep enough. Because he is too attached to work. Because he is just paranoid.   
Not for the first time, when sleep does evade him, he imagines the library in Malfoy Manor. Sure, he wants more, but the simple thought of sleeping beside someone is scary. Beautiful, but scary. He is too afraid to lose the little bit of safety he has established over the past months to risk it for something that will not work out anyways.

  
He couldn’t stay in bed long enough for anyone to put up with him. When he has more than four hours at a stretch, it’s a good night. And tonight, with all the adrenaline in his system, he won’t be able to sleep at all. Sighing, he closes the bed and switches on the light at his desk. In a few hours, he will fall asleep on a small mountain of paperwork, and that will be fine. Until then, the least, he can do is get stuff done.

  
  
November the 3rd. Harry will come today. He promised. They haven’t seen the last week, and Draco counts it as a small blessing to receive a note from him two days ago, simply stating, that he was ok and would be home today… Hopefully.

  
At least, Harry doesn’t forget about him.

  
But two days of waiting do strange things to the mind. Especially, when something is, just slightly, off. At first, Draco can’t put a finger on it. Well… beside sending a note at all… Harry simply does not do that. He comes and goes as unbidden as rainy weather. And there is more, scratching disturbingly insistent at Draco’s composure. Halloween is done… What is he waiting for? And why is he so damn specific, when he will be back?

  
November the 3rd… What’s so special there? Yesterday evening, under the light of the full moon, the pieces fell into their place. Hell, no, he can’t seriously… But this is Harry. He can, and he will. And there is nothing, Draco can do about it. Even, if he disregarded Harry’s need for secrecy and went to the Bureau to ask after him, even then… it wouldn’t change a thing. So, he sits, and he waits, and he hopes, his hands shaking.

  
Yet, nothing, nothing, can prepare him for the moment, when the knock comes. Harry doesn’t use the bell anymore, insists on asking to enter though. In a rush he is at the door, ripping it open, hoping, this is no one else, this isn’t a bad joke, this isn’t… but no… the bureau wouldn’t alarm him anyways, they don’t even know… do they?

  
Of course, it is Harry, and somehow, this is worse. He looks bone tired, literally dead on his feet. Still in uniform, an incident unknown up to know, drenched in blood. “It’s not mine”, he whispers, the voice too hoarse for anything louder and staggers inside. A few steps, then he drops on the arch of stairs to the upper floor, lowers his head to his knees and cries, the shoulders slightly lifting, when he sobs silently.

  
Long seconds, Draco only stares, unable to connect the dots, petrified by helplessness. When he, eventually, figures it out, he sits down next to Harry, so close, that their legs are almost touching. It takes him a few moments to muster up his courage and put a hand on Harry’s back, but when he does, Harry shifts, leaning over, now crying in his lap instead of his own. In slow-motion Draco lowers his hands, starts stroking Harry’s hair, holds one of his hands that is clenching on him, as if afraid to fall. The stuttering breath is the only noise for a long, long time.

When in the end, he sits up again, his face is flushed and wet and no less tired than before.

  
“Will you tell me?” Draco keeps the tone carefully neutral, adding no pressure, where there has been enough of it.

  
For a moment, it looks like Harry will shake his head, but then, he just starts. “On the full moon… Greyback’s pack went on a hunt for us. For aurors… For everyone who smelled like us. There have been deaths. An old man, cleaning the offices on his way home, a woman, trainee auror, on patrol. My present partner… Feathering… got bitten. I don’t know, if she will make it. Don’t know, if she can continue to work. I… tried… so hard. I wasn’t fast enough. It should have been me… Should have been me…”

  
For a moment, he bites his lips, and just, when Draco thinks, this is all, the worst is out, Harry continues.

  
“They had me down… sniffed at me… shit hit the fan… Someone tried to help me… got killed, landed on me… I don’t even know, who that was... I…”   
His voice breaks and all, that remains, is silence. Draco pulls him into an embrace, ignoring the slimy remnants of blood, the stench of sweat and death and violence.

  
When he removes himself, after what feels like hours, Harry stays, staring at the floor, asleep with his eyes open. Draco desperately needs to put him into a bed, so he prepares a shower, a small meal and the sheets of the master bedroom and then gets Harry through those steps.

  
Harry does not resist, when he steps into the shower with him, lathers him, washes his hair. Something, that speaks its own language on how bad it really is.   
Harry doesn’t eat then, but is thankful for the bed, without registering, it isn’t his, but Draco’s. Contrary to his usual self, he is asleep, before Draco has put the blankets over him. Even more so… he stays there, sleeping like he intends to clear his sleep deprivation all at once.

  
Early in the evening, Draco joins him, preparing for a probably unpleasant night. Preparing for nightmares beyond the usual and, once Harry finds out, what he did, an argument of epic proportions.

\-----

  
  
It’s dark, when Harry wakes up. Dark and surprisingly comfortable. He is not sure, where he is, and he does not really care. But this certainly isn’t the makeshift bed in his office. Too warm, too soft.

  
Seems, he made it to the manor. It’s a soothing thought. Draco won’t worry. All will be fine. As the drowsiness lifts, so does the comforting numbness. What the…   
There is a hand on his stomach, breath on the nape of his neck. What has he done? How and when did he fuck up? Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Draco will be out of his mind, while he…

  
Stop it. Details, remember?

  
Harry concentrates. He cannot see much, but feel, hear, smell. It’s not that hard for someone with a routine. After a few moments he is sure, he is with a man, not a woman. He groans softly. In a way, this is worse. Draco would probably be less upset about a woman. He isn’t sure about identity, though. The heartbeat and breath are familiar, but all he can smell is soap, his own, to be precise. How can this be? This surely isn’t the bed in his flat and the rest of his things are at Malfoy manor.

  
How probable is it to meet a man, who uses exactly the same soap and shampoo, for Merlin’s sake? Time for some moment of truth, it seems. Very carefully he reaches for the bedside table to feel for his glasses and wand. Which aren’t there.

  
Fuck.

  
Maybe, it’s not to dark to see a little? He turns, catches a glimpse of almost whitish hair.

  
“Could you please stop moving?”, a drowsy voice mumbles faintly. Draco? Draco!

  
How the hell can this be Draco? They… never…

  
He turns with a jerk, now fully awake. “Draco?” It’s not half as quiet as he wished it to be, and the repeat is even louder. “Draco.”

  
The very one slowly comes to senses, tensing suddenly. “Sorry, ‘bout that. You seemed in no state to be left alone.”

  
Harry gasps for air and rises to sitting position. “I… am not sure, I remember.”

“No wonder. You were barely conscious.” He cannot see Draco’s face in the darkness, but the voice still sounds worried.

  
He still managed to mess it up, it seems… But it’s less of a misery, than he thought. At least, he is home. He relaxes some.

\-----

  
  
Draco watches Harry processing the situation and waits for the explosion that, inexplicably, doesn’t come. When his patience is used up, he tucks at Harry’s arm and pulls him down again. “Come on… It’s two o’clock, let’s get some more sleep, while we can.”

  
It comes as another surprise, that Harry simply obeys, at least to the former part. Now, close by, Draco can make out his face and plants a bold little kiss on his cheekbone. “You better?”

  
He gets one of Harrys usual noncommittal shrugs. “I guess…”

  
It could be awkward, but the more Harry relaxes, the less it is. Soon, Draco cannot resist to let his hands roam Harry’s back. Soft skin, relaxed muscles… a fantastic feeling. Silently, Harry gets closer, rests his head on Draco’s arm.

  
“I want you to fuck me.”

  
It’s so strangely disconnected, that Draco doubts his own senses. He must have imagined that. This isn’t real. He is still asleep and dreaming, for sure. Is he? “How… why?”

  
Harry lets out a small, breathy laugh. “I didn’t take you as that inexperienced.” No, he isn’t dreaming. That is Harry at his best. Always a joke, when he doesn’t know, what else to say. Always deflecting, always in charge.

  
“Leaves the why.” Draco shifts his weight uneasily. Why is he disagreeing, why, dammit? Why can’t he just let it happen, when he dreamed of it…. Like… from the start.

  
“I… need you to be in charge. I can’t be. Not now.”

  
There it is. He can’t do it. He just… Why is it always so complicated?

  
“Draco. Draco, look at me.” There is no green in his eyes now. Only gentle darkness. “I trust you to take care of me.” It’s but a whisper.

  
It hits Draco like a fist. Fuck, how can he just say such thing? How the hell is Draco supposed to live up to that? There must be a way out of it. There…. Yes… “I don’t have anything… here. It would hurt you.”

  
Soft laughter. A kiss. “That’s the point. Partly. It doesn’t hurt, it’s not real.”

  
Another hit, right where it hurts most. How can Harry expect him to… And how can he… Hell… This is a nightmare. Must be. Has to be. How else can he be turned on by that? How else can he still be here?

  
“I… Harry, I can’t do it. I… want to… but… I can’t. You are… not really…”

  
“What… In my right mind?” Harry lies there, still, as if nothing happened and slowly places his hand on Draco’s ribs. Not playfully. Actually the very opposite. “I am fully aware, what to expect. And I am not afraid.” He tells Draco, he will understand. Either way, he tells him, he trusts him, again… It’s hardly audible above the noise in Draco’s ears.

  
And still… Although this is the worst mess Harry has ever presented to him, he is still there. Thinking… “I can do that. I can make him feel better. And…” He dares not think, that he dreamed of it. Not now. Not yet. But he can do one thing.

  
“Wait a second. I will be right back.” He can get the fucking lube.

\-----  
  
  
The comfortable after sex tiredness covers Harry like a heavy blanket. He doesn’t mind the sticky mess, they made, as long as he can still feel Draco pressed against his back, their legs entangled, their bodies still not fully disconnected. Now he can smell him, and it is wonderfully familiar.

  
If he died like that, buried in his presence, he’d die happy. His eyelids sink deeper by the minute, he can feel his breath calming. But he can’t let go yet. “Thank you.”

  
Draco moves a little and his breath tickles at Harry’s ear. “You are welcome.” And a kiss.

  
Is this how paradise feels? Or just, how everybody else feels all the time? It doesn’t matter. It is sweet, and it won’t last. He breathes it in, deeply, slowly falling asleep. And thankful for it.

\----  
  
  
Draco wakes up in well-established frustration. Of course, he is alone. Of course, Harry is gone. It is not the library for a change, not the armchair, that always makes his legs cramp, when he tries to sleep in it. Doesn’t really make a difference, in the end. He feels well-rested. Doesn’t either.

  
It does make a change, when he hears noise from the kitchen. Something clattering, something smashing. “Reparo!”

  
It’s not possible. He stands at the kitchen door, his hand hovering over the handle, and he dares not enter. It just isn’t possible. “Harry?”

  
The door opens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Am not allowed back for a few days. Psychological leave or something.” Harry always sounds so nonchalant, when he talks about things like this, the deflection working almost perfectly. He’s still bold enough to breathe a small kiss on Draco’s cheek before turning back.   
Draco sighs wearily and helps him prepare the breakfast. No vulnerable Harry today. The walls up again. It’s always two steps forward, one back… or sometimes two… or three.

  
He could get used to the small signs of affection though. The musing looks over the rim of the coffee mug. The small peck in passing by. The brushing of Harry’s hand. It seems like nothing. Would be nothing to most. For someone avoiding touch so thoroughly as Harry does, it’s everything.

  
When they are settled at the table and eating, Harry asks: “You’ve got something to do, today?” He doesn’t even look up for that.

  
Draco shrugs. “Actually: yes.” Bad timing, he will meet McGonagall today. But nothing to be done about it.

Harry doesn’t look disappointed anyways. “You ok with me reading at the library? Seems, like I have a little time at hand.”

  
Another shrug. “Don’t make a mess of my kitchen. I mean… another one.”

  
With that, it is settled. And for the first time, Harry will stay here. And for the first time, alone. Draco nervously prays, it will go well.

\-----

As agreed with his former teacher, Draco meets Minerva McGonagall in a backstreet of Diagon Alley with the intent to go for a lunch together. “Mr. Malfoy”, she greets him with a mixture of adult politeness and teacher-like attention. He nods and answers likewise, albeit it feels strange to talk to her in that manner, or again at all.

Just to fight the awkward guilty feeling at the back of his head, as if she caught him in the act on some misdeed, he goes on. “I am most thankful, that you are willing to talk to me.”

He can't really decipher her smile and abandons the attempt, shrugging, when she replies: “You were rather vague on the topic of this conversation.”

A fast smile passes over his face, one he cannot fully hide. “It's Potter.”

At first she misreads the situation. “So you have information on his present... state. I didn't take you as such a petty and vengeful person, you would come to gloat even to me.”

“More like first-hand experience to be honest”, he admits, very much not smiling.

His former teacher furrows her brow, cocks her head inquisitively. “This is unexpected, indeed.”

With another small smile he raises his hand softly, indicating his own confusion on the fact.

“Then, what assistance do you hope to receive from me?” She offers no indication, if any will be available at all.

“Insight, maybe. Advice... Possibly, you even know someone better equipped to... achieve an improvement.”

As usual she dissects the situation with ease. “I am afraid, the latter is a rather futile endeavor. Mr. Potter refuses to offer even the most basic trust, necessary to establish a therapeutic relation.” Sounds like him. Obviously. “I however assume, you might be in position to enable Mr. Potter to receive some long overdue relief?”

She can still easily make anyone feel dumb. Damn her. But needing her help, he just nods.

“How fortunate, Mr. Malfoy. I would suggest, though, you started to address your own shortcomings as well, for it appears unwise to let the blind lead the lame, metaphorically speaking.”

Think, Draco! Don't just blurt out your frustration, he reminds himself. “And how were I to do that?”, he inquires cautiously.

McGonagall ponders for a moment, before replying: “I refuse to put such fragile spirits at risk by hasted recommendations. Please await my correspondence for further instruction. I assure you, your request will not be forgotten.” And like that, she leaves, without even considering his offer for a shared meal. She is as dry and matter-of-factually as he remembers. Which is good news, under the circumstances.

\-----

It's the second day, Harry stays at home and it still feels surreal. Especially after his meeting with McGonagall, that established, his worries certainly were not misplaced. Though right now, it really does not look like it.

Harry is lying at his usual place on the fur in the library, relaxed and content, eyes closed to the warm light of the November sun, that surprisingly shines through the windows. From time to time one of his eyes squints to check on Draco, but otherwise he does not move. He even wears a soft smile to emphasize the perfection of the moment.

If only Draco could turn his back as easily. His mind still displays the broken image from two nights ago prominently. How Harry wept, how lost he was. Nothing like he looks now.

Eventually his grumpy attitude rubs of enough on Harry's serenity to make him open his eyes fully and watch Draco thoughtfully.”You ok?”

Draco waves his hand defiantly and sighs: “It's nothing.”

Undisturbed Harry tips his head and smiles sadly. “Draco? Don't “nothing” me. You are to bad a liar to play annoyed housewife.” The small smirk, the twinkle in his eyes removes the sting of the words with ease.

How can one _not_ smile back to _that._ “I... only thought...” Harry's intense listening is unnerving. He doesn't even ask him to go on. Listening is enough. “I thought, this is, what I wanted. But the price is to high.”

Harry's eyes close again, with a satisfied hum. “Do I disturb your peace? My apologies, Mr. Malfoy.” It's so annoyingly sweet.

Draco snarls anyways. “That's not it!”

“What is it then?” Although he does not even open his eyes again, Draco can feel the whole weight of his attention.

He shrugs helplessly, trying to find the right words. “Two nights ago... that dead look in your eyes.... that broken way you moved.” And the other thing you said... “And this... if it doesn't hurt, it's not real...”

Harry nods, just once. You have to pay attention to figure him out. “It's true though. The only way to tell dream from reality. If it's real, it hurts. And I want you, need you to be real.” The soft smile doesn't even fade for that wisdom. It's haunting.

“Harry!”

Now, finally, he gets up, faces Draco. “It's ok. I break, I mend, I heal.” He messes up his hair, apologetically.

For a moment, Draco hesitates, before almost shouting. “No, Harry, you don't heal. You shatter, you pick up the pieces and glue them together until they resemble functionality, you shatter again. It's not healthy, you know?” He clenches his fists, as if to hit Harry. To beat that damn smile out of his face.

“It's functional”, Harry admits, as sadness bleeds into his eyes and kills Draco's urge to hurt him instantly. Harry _never_ admits anything, doesn't he? And it gets worse. Stranger.

“I'm not good at relationship. I am not good at anything except working my ass off. Out of practice, I guess. But I won't mess this up. I'll do, what's necessary. Everything.”

The no-nonsense-tone, the sincerity of his face enrage Draco and he growls: “No, you won't.” He can see the confusion in Harry's face, so he goes on. “That's not, what I want. I want you, not some twisted image of what you think I need!”

Against all odds the damn smile is back. He wants to wipe it out and grumbles: “I pondered to ask you to stop working as an auror. But then again... that wouldn't be you, then, would it?” _This_ is positively a full-blown grin. What the hell.

“You _do_ love me, you know?” Now, even a chuckle. Infuriating.

“How can you tell?”, he snaps, not really interested in an answer.

Harry draws closer, wraps his fingers around Draco's leg, warm and tender. “You are the most egoistical bastard, I know. You never do something just because.”

It would hurt. It really would, if it wasn't for the jokingly conversational way, he talks. And for the hand, that cups the back of his lower leg.

“You don't mean that.”

“No.” Now Harry leans his face against Draco's knee.

“And you?” He bows and places a kiss on Harry's hair. “Do you love me?”

A small raising of the head enables Harry to look him in the eyes. “You can't tell?”

Almost desperately Draco describes, how the broken puzzle named Harry confuses him. The mood swings, the question, which Harry goes away and which will come home. If he comes at all. If he wants to be touched or to be left alone. If he is hurt or angry or tired.

Harry listens to all of it, without ever interrupting, then rising, takes Draco's face in both his hands. “Ok.” He exhales. “I _do_ love you. And I am terribly afraid. Of you and for you.”

Harry is the only person in the world, who does not kiss after such a declaration. Instead he removes himself, walks over to the window. His tensing hands leave stained marks on the otherwise flawless surface.

Only when Draco follows him, embraces him, presses his face into Harry's shoulder, he can relax again. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... here we are... They finally said it. To bad, they dug an even deeper hole, they need to climb out now... And I would really would like to write Lucius return, I just don't have a reason, why HE should be released from Azkaban... It would be fun though ;)
> 
> I guess, I am a sadistic author... I love putting my characters through the worst stuff.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco experiences a crisis, with terrible consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... so no reaction on the l-word... maybe you like a little angst better...

With the darkness after sunset Harry’s unrest returns. He paces along the room in never-ending circles, gazing distrustfully into the shadows outside. His demeanor is a good indicator, why he isn’t the most famous auror, but certainly among the most feared ones. Some of it even reminds Draco of Mad-Eye Moody, who’d also been even more alert during the night.

And it’s not only the movement, even the breath is somehow tense, like that of a beast, though today it is undecided if Harry turns out to be hunter or prey.

Draco is soon fed up with the constant display of nervous anticipation and tries to stir Harry into bed, but it is futile. Sure, Harry agrees to go to sleep, but, as if nothing happened, heads for the guest room with the single bed, Draco prepared for him. And while doing so looks nothing if not determined.

Here, in the end, Draco finds the ticking bomb, he has been waiting for. Or at least, this is, what he thinks will turn out as the one. He decides to leave it alone for now. If Harry decides to sleep alone again, he will not question it.

Yet, when he leis between the sheets in the master bedroom, lonely and a little too cold, it doesn’t feel right. Draco gets angry about it, swears to himself, this is just Harry’s usual stubbornness, and he is not missing him at all, he just can’t sleep, because Harry’s distress is contagious. He still rolls around all the time, unable to find a comfortable position.

Dammit, why can Harry not for once admit, he needs this as well? Why does he always have the need to prove his independence? Or is it not that, but just a question of dominance? Just as well. Draco will certainly _not_ go look for him. He will not slip in beside him on the far too small single bed, when they could have slept in the comfortable master bedroom.

That’s ridiculous and immature, an unfair, irresponsible game of chicken!

The first gong of eleven from the big grandfather clock in the main hall leaves Draco with an epiphany of sorts. Harry will not come back. Never planned to. And he isn’t inconsiderate either. He just does not have it in him.

Knowing Harry and assuming the worst probably quite the opposite. As ten more gongs wave past him, Draco sits up, thinking, and leaves his bed abruptly.

Pulls a warm sweater over his head and heads for the guest room.

Just as he opens the door, he can hear Harry’s fast and irregular breathing. He lights the lamp on the nightstand with a flick of his wand and finds him between disheveled blankets, tense like a drawn bow, his hair plastered to the head and small beads of cold sweat on his forehead. There is no screaming, no thrashing, no indication of distress, you could sense from outside of the room. For Merlin’s sake, how many nightmares did he simply not notice, because Harry didn’t fucking scream?

Just then, Harry opens his eyes, jumps out of the bed and straight at Draco. His hands grab Draco’s collar and squeeze with inhumanly intensity, while the weight of his body pins him against the wall. Draco is by now fit enough, strong enough for some major resistance. His weight alone should pose some difficulty. Only, it doesn’t. It’s not until he desperately gasps and coughs, wriggling in Harry’s merciless grip, that the other fully wakes.

For a second, his terrified eyes meet Draco’s shocked ones, then, softly, apologetically he sets him down. “Sorry… I didn’t know it was you.”

He moves away, slips back into the bed and hides his face in the pillows, as if the uncomfortable position and his continued shivering wouldn’t tell Draco enough. Without a single word, he climbs over him and positions himself carefully in the restricted space of the bed, holding Harry in his arms.

It takes a while to calm down, but when Harry’s breath steadies, he relaxes and falls asleep within minutes.

It doesn’t work, though. After half an hour, Harry’s body flexes once more, and he gasps in renewed panic, until Draco succeeds in waking him up. And again. And again. It becomes obvious, there will be no undisturbed sleep tonight. Soon, they give up and head for the library, without even exchanging a sound. It is just understood, this is their safe place, their last resort.

There, in the end, Harry finds some words. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” It’s absurd and Draco chooses not to comment, busies himself with two glasses of fire whisky as Harry lights the fire. As always. He hands one glass over, then asks hoarsely: “Is it often like this?”

No answer from Harry is in this more answer than he wanted, or expected, and the only comfort in it is, that at least, Harry didn’t try to lie again.

After a while, Harry picks up their fragmented conversation. “It’s worst, when the day was good. And when I sleep in a real bed. In my flat or… the office. That’s why…” He pets the fur carefully and nods in its direction.

Draco suggests, he should sleep, while he continues sipping on his whisky. And strangely enough, once he lies down, soon Draco can hear him snore softly.

Can it be that easy? Have they created some special magic in this place, that only works for Harry, but does so unbelievably well?

He doesn’t analyze, what exactly does the trick, the fire, the place, the books, the open view over the grounds… He only gets a blanket for each of them.

Harry still wakes him up twice more and is gone in the morning, but compared to the catastrophe of the early night, it counts as success.

\-----

It comes as a pleasant surprise, there is coffee, toast and scrambled eggs with bacon waiting for him in the kitchen, especially with little to no untidiness. Even better, harry returns from a morning run, fresh and breathless and sweaty, smelling like paradise.

“It’s getting cold in the morning”, he says to no one in particular, helping himself to a mug as well. “Took me almost ten minutes to stop freezing.”

The delightful normalcy of it is deceivingly tempting. How can it be, those two Harrys coexist so easily? The scared, broken night creature, stripped of everything but bare humanity, and the seemingly perfect golden boy? And how does he happen to love them both so effortlessly, helplessly?

Draco, asked on his rational opinion, would swear, the latter is just a mask to help the former hiding. But this isn’t about rationality. Harry doesn’t work like that. It is something completely different, complicated, evasive.

He isn’t one of them. Or the other. Not even both. He is in between. In the unfilled spaces, in the breaking points. He communicates sparsely, you have to be cautious. You have to look, and when you startle him, he is gone.

It takes more of Draco’s strength and patience, than he ever knew, he had, taming the shy thing, luring it from hiding.

And in the days, when Harry seems at his best, he doubts he can the most. When the wall of Harry’s image for the world seems impregnable. The strong and dedicated auror, the hard worker, humble hero. Today is like that, he realizes, while the joy, he felt, dissipates. Today Harry is nothing like the trusting, vulnerable man, who showed him his weaknesses, and everything like the boy he hated in school.

Not cruel or bad, considerate and friendly, yet obnoxiously good-looking, annoyingly nice and all in all just too perfect. It must have been a shield for his true feelings, even then, and it still manages to enrage Draco easily, so the scales of his mood tip and end up at white-hot anger in one go.

It takes all of Draco’s restraint to keep himself cool long enough to excuse himself for a work-out and leave in a rush. In the training hall, so he hopes, he can just waste the fury, unleash it on some unlucky dummy.

\----

Draco has been away much to long. By now it’s getting dark again, meaning, he wasn’t there for lunch and gives no indication, he intends to attend dinner.

Harry really starts to worry. Ok, no… scratch that, it’s not even borderline true. He has been worried ever since Draco’s unexpected disappearance. But now, with the return of the darkness, the onslaught of memories and bad dreams, this worry overpowers Harry’s every intention to leave space for Draco, not to intrude more than he already has.

This is, when he starts looking.

There is, naturally, nobody in the training hall, with it’s poor overworked dummies that take the brunt of both Harry’s and Draco’s fits of inexplicable rage. The main hall and library are empty, as are the bedrooms. On his second round through the house Harry includes the smaller spaces, he passed by before. Cabinets, closets, bathrooms.

His heart is beating only one stroke apart from panic by now, and he is rushing from room to room to room. But he is still capable to feel it. Knows, he found him, before opening the door. Stops. “Draco?”

The door muffles a defiant: “Go away.”

Harry stays. He doesn’t move back. Can’t. Doesn’t open the door. Won’t. His breathing calms, though his hands are shaking. Everything feels terribly wrong.

Listen. Feel. Smell.

Soft sobs, an angry thunk. Grizzly crunching noises. Broken glass.

The small of anger and of blood. Draco!

There is one simple thing, he has promised himself, needed to in order to let this happen, to let Draco in. One thing, he needed, before allowing even the tiniest chance, he might hurt him. Draco that is. Harry is not very particular about himself anymore. Not to force anything on him. Never to press the point. Not even now, not even with the smell of blood in the air. “Draco, please. Let me come.”

He pleads. He would beg, if there was any chance it might help. “Please.” So soft, Draco won’t hear it. Loaded with uncryable tears.

For a very long time, it feels like a dead end. Draco does not answer, does not react, forcing harry into inaction.

\----

When Draco clumsily opens the door with his elbow, both hands pressed against the chest carefully, he is shivering. The silence on the other side has stretched out for so long, he is almost sure, Harry has left. And still, it doesn’t come as surprise to see him standing there, motionless, hands clenched into almost white fists, the face a pained mask, the eyes _fixed_ onto Draco, taking in the tear-streaked face, the goose-bumped torso, the bleeding fingers, hands, arms.

He almost leaps at Draco on the slightest inkling of a welcome, but touches him so tenderly, as if afraid to break him.

“It is mine”, Draco coughs out a private little joke, even Harry won’t understand, for he probably still doesn’t remember.

Then he willingly lets himself get pulled out into an embrace and Harry’s gentle care. Assists in his efforts to pull as many shards out of his fingers as possible, before bandaging them. It’s not Harry’s way to ask, what happened. Chances are, he knows. Knows of the moments of irresistible self-hatred that make you leash out at anything, including your own mirror image. Especially your own mirror image.

He should have remembered, it is ill-advised to smash magical mirrors like that, as you can’t simply magic them back, when needed, but, well… it’s a little late for regret.

It is, however, the perfect moment to let Harry kiss him, whisper little endearments to him, comfort him.

He can’t help but smile, when Harry wraps his own sweater firmly around is shoulders, giving a flying fuck, now he will be cold. And he gets alarmed, when Harry moves him towards their access to the flea network.

“I can’t help you”, Harry declares soothingly. “I am not much of a healer. You need hospital.” And like that, almost mirroring their initial encounter, albeit a lot more comfortable due to the preparations he made, Harry brings him to St. Mungo’s.

It’s funny, how cautiously he avoids physical contact, as soon as other people are around, while still eyeing him, as if starving for his presence. You’d have to be blind or dangerously stupid not to see it for what it is. And the farewell he gives, when the hospital staff shuts him out… A look to die for. Beautiful and sad.

Only, when he is gone, Draco finally starts to feel pain. Seriously, it stings badly. But he is a man, he can take it. Honestly, he gets seriously upset, when the healer insists to keep him here, at least overnight. When Harry is waiting! Some stupid idiot refuses to let him go, find the other, tell him, it will be ok.

He almost screams at the nurses, when he finds out, they sent Harry away. Seriously… He only stops, because he remembers. He won’t expose this. Harry was probably intentionally vague on his reasons for staying here. Going after him will have to wait.

\-----

Harry snarls and throws the newspaper back to his desk. He isn’t supposed to be in his office just yet, but it is not a good idea to get back to Malfoy Manor, and he can’t stand the silence in his flat or the bustling activity at the houses of his friends.

Another grim noise escapes him, when he remembers, that they too will read the title.

“Auror Potter oversteps again. Rehabilitated Malfoy severely injured.”

Decorated with the very face, he made, when he left the hospital. When he was, of course, very upset. He was fucking worried out of his mind!

The door opens and Thoribalt Hadrian, his direct superior enters. Oh yes. The bureau reads the newspaper too. “Potter. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

They have established a long time ago, that neither will lie for the sake of politeness. “You aren’t.”

Reluctantly Thoribalt shakes his head, sighs, pulls himself a chair. “Are you ready to explain this?”

Harry shrugs. “Would you believe me?”, he asks, with more than a little helpless amusement.

“Try me!” Thoribalt’s dry humor and patients are an asset in good times. They are annoying now.

“I found him, badly injured and did what I like to think of as my duty?” Even Harry can hear, how ridiculous this sounds, although it is as close to the truth as he dares to get.

Thoribalt gives him a distinct “Oh really”-look. And sighs. “Harry, no matter, what happened, no matter, how harmless and innocent it might be – and I won’t say, it wasn’t – I have people to answer to, and they will want explanations. In a very demanding voice.”

With that, he leans towards Harry, resting a hand on his forearm.

“I get it, I really do. You have a history. But this situation leaves me no choice but to place you under direct supervision. Verbanian Dewdrop will keep tabs on you for the time being.”

This is… “No!” Wide-eyed, Harry rises from his seat. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not harm him like that.” He is very particular with the wording. He cannot truthfully say, he did not hurt him at all. Not even physically, albeit on accident.

Thoribalt looks almost embarrassed and quite sorry. “I am most willing to nullify this arrangement… as soon as possible.”

Time for some truths… Hoping, Thoribalt can take them. And keep his mouth shut. Harry casts a long look on his superior and decides, he deserves some trust. Very quietly, so much, that the other auror needs to lean closer, he explains: “I told you the truth… I… I found him. At Malfoy Manor. Were I was, because… this is, where I live.”

Thoribalt is torn between laughter and disbelief, barely catching himself, when he looks at Harry’s face. “You mean, you… and… Malfoy…”

“Yes… No… Yes… Maybe…” Harry coughs. “I don’t really know. We try.”

It is obvious, the man has no idea, what to say. Or do. At last, he exhales. “Not Dewdrop then. I will work out an arrangement.”

\----

Draco has no intention to stay in the hospital longer than necessary, but the staff just won’t let him leave. So he is still in a single room, constantly checked upon by the nurses, when a visitor is announced. For just a second, his heart beats faster, only to realize, it’s not worth it. Harry won’t come. They won’t let him.

Instead, when he opens the door, he meets the steeled gaze of his aunt. Andromeda Tonks. Not a fan, for sure. She scans him, head to toe and back up, taking in the image of bandaged hands, purplish circles below his eyes, insufficient and mismatched clothing. “They told me, what happened and asked me to get you… Lacking… alternatives.” She is less than joyful, naturally.

“What they think, that happened”, Draco corrects harshly, despite her annoyed look.

“Oh Draco, are you _such_ a coward, you cannot even admit it?” She turns around, not willing to watch him any longer. “When we get to Grimmault Place, I expect you to keep your behavior in check. Teddy needs no foul-mouthed, badly behaved disappointment of a relative around.”

With three fast steps he gets in front of her and snaps: “He won’t get that. I leave for Malfoy Manor, as soon as I walk out that door. I have things to do.” He stops suddenly, breathing elaborated, and adds belatedly: “Why Grimmault Place?”

Andromeda’s smile lacks any warmth on his behalf. “After Sirius’ death, the house was given to its present heir, his godson.” “Harry, Draco’s memory very unhelpfully provides. “Who in turn felt, it should belong to Teddy. So… here we are.”

His mouth today is faster than his brain, and he asks without thinking it through: “And… do you know him? Does he visit?”

Andromeda’s stare nails him into place. “You need not fear. It is very unlikely you will have to deal with him. He comes by rarely.”

His heart sinks. “I really see no point in joining you there, no matter, who visits or doesn’t.”

He thought, there was no way, her gaze could get any more intense. He was certainly wrong. He feels practically swallowed whole and chewed for good measure. “Draco, there is no way, you are leaving, before you do some serious explaining.”

Even Draco knows, she won’t change her mind, so he just sighs: “Fine. Preferably somewhere more private.” To his genuine surprise, she agrees.

\----

“Don’t fucking tell me, you are the big, fat, damned secret reason, why he visits his friends and us even _less_ than usual. Please don’t.”

Andromeda looks just as displeased as she started off. Her place is quiet and safe and attributed to the fact, that her grandson isn’t present, swearing seems to be allowed.

Draco shrugs in a very Harry’s noncommittal gestures kind of way. “It’s not entirely impossible, I am afraid.” She looks, as if she would slap him, if he said one more word, so he doesn’t.

“Have you any idea? At all?”

“What?” Draco is not in the mood to be scolded. “Have _you_? The only time, you have seen me in years, was at your sister’s funeral. And you didn’t seem particularly interested in me.”

Is that… guilt? Draco keeps it in mind for later and goes on: “Neither I nor he owe you any explanation.”

Stripped of most of her authority, she lashes out. “He has _friends_. They worry.”

“So do I, so stop, the hell, delaying me!”

She lets him go. Which is a surprise. He is not sure, it’s a pleasant one.

\-----

Harry mostly stays in his office. They allowed him back to work, on his desk, that is, and it offers at least some protection. Outside, the curse of anyone recognizable is waiting. All hail the yellow press. Whenever he goes outside, he finds another version of his intentionally blank face on the front page, the next day. He can easily do without. Thoribalt brings him meals and insists on eating with him, just to make sure, he does eat. Furthermore, he has exchanged the famously pacifistic, yet self-righteous bastard Verbanian Dewdrop for Fennimore Grant.

Harry can live with Grant. He is not a dick and might even deliberately forget about some details of Harry’s life in his reports. He still practically forbids any further visit to Malfoy Manor. He would be forced to report _that_ …

So, Harry suffers silently, as he was used to and curses himself for regaining some hope, only to watch it so easily destroyed again. Most times, that feels comfortably numb. Most times, he is only sorry for Draco. He must feel awfully lonely and there is nothing to be done.

And then, suddenly, like a stab in the back, the pain hits. He misses him. So badly. He can barely breath, can barely hold back the tears. Each time it lasts only for seconds, but as time goes on, the rare occasion gets more and more common… Alarmingly common. And again… nothing to do about it. Not even an escape route, with another auror constantly watching him, even it is one as laid back as Fennimore Grant.

Did he ever before feel so lonely in his life? He certainly was, of course… but then, he hadn’t known.

\----

Harry hasn’t been back. Not even for his things. Not even for the meal he left behind, which is a little smelly by now. And he will continue to stay away, he cannot know, Draco is waiting for him. Fuck! While Draco tries to figure out, how to best contact him discretely, he goes for the mail his owls obediently placed on the front porch. There are a few letters, but mostly it’s newspapers from the days he was away. He leaves through them, disinterested, until…

Oh, for Merlin’s fucking sake, this can’t happen, this just…

The titles are plastered on his internal horizon in monstrous letters, threatening to smash him, suffocate him…

**“Auror Potter on the brink of insanity?”**

**“Harry Potter – an unending disgrace for auror bureau”**

**“Fading glamour pushes Potter into violence”**

Draco feels his hands shaking, lets the papers fall to the ground, the photos of Harry’s obviously distressed face splattered all over the ground like stains of blood. Draco allows himself a moment of weakness, a few minutes of crying, before collecting himself again.

He can’t let this happen. Harry will need his help, even if it is the last thing, he can do for him. Even if this is the last straw, and there will be no thereafter. He doesn’t deserve this. For fuck’s sake, he tried to save Draco, not to hurt him.

For a moment, Draco ponders, sending an owl. But Harry won’t answer, and it’s not safe anyways. There must be something else. Or someone.

Even now, Draco can’t bring himself to contact that annoying bunch of Weasleys. There is no love lost between them. The same goes for most other contacts, he suspects to still be in contact with Harry. Granger… Longbottom. They probably still think of him as their torturer, or maybe the Slytherin scapegoat, that came so handy for everyone, after the war, before the trials left him mostly unscathed, due to Harry’s intervention.

It’s the first time, Draco dares to admit, how thankful he was, that Harry’s appeal spared both him and his mother to got to Azkaban. And how useless a thought it is. He is beyond gratitude, he is in love, and he fucking needs to safe him!

But maybe, just maybe…

He ponders the question for quite a while, it’s hard to swallow his pride, especially when it probably won’t work anyways. But still. On the slightest of all chances…

With an angry sigh, he heads back to Grimmault Place. Andromeda knows something. And since she is informed anyways… There is no harm done in asking her. Insistently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... The word is out... And it affects them greatly. We will see, if they can figure it out or break under the pressure.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Harry and Draco find allies... and some things go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much less angst, much more fluff and some smut, this chapter. I needed to give them a pause, before things come crashing down again.   
> I also figured out the end, though there is still a lot of stuff before. Maybe twice of the present in the end.   
> PS: I starve for comments.

Harry is an awful worker for a change. He might be sitting at his desk as he should, but he does not do anything. He already hates doing his own paperwork, but he gets by. Now, that he is banned from going out, hunting, he gets everyone’s paperwork.

Besides… he wasn’t expected back anyways, and now he is practically a prisoner. If Thoribalt expects anything decent from him, he will find out, _happy_ workers are good workers. And that is one thing, Harry is even less than usual.

On the contrary, the only climax of his day is his trip to the training hall, where he first exhausts as much of his body as he can in the short time being and then reduces dummies to splinters with his spells. And that despite the fact, that he prefers to use rather harmless hexes.

Back in his offices, he just sits and broods, giving Fennimore Grant an easy job in watching over him. Most times, he just does his own papers and tries to ignore the constrictions of a shared office.

Only when a third person enters, it really feels cramped. And of course, it must be Dewdrop, the self-righteous fucking hypocrite. “You have a visitor, Potter.” His tone is carefully joyous, while his eyes spit poison on Harry.

Harry shrugs. “Not interested, thank you.” Where Dewdrop tries to sound like he is fucking pucking rainbows and shitting toffee, his own tone is as non-descript as it gets. He follows it up with a grin that not even touches the center of his lips, even less the eyes.

Dewdrop’s mirrored facial expression looks even less friendly. “Well, since I refuse to be the shield between you and a good punch from reality, you can very well go and tell her yourself.” Then he leaves. Luckily.

Harry stares a killing look into his back for good measure and mumbles: “Would be a good shield indeed, reality has stopped bothering him years ago.”

On the side-desk Grant snorts, suppressing laughter, but getting up to follow him around.

“I really need no shadow”, Harry stops him. “I will literally only go to the hall, deal with the visitor and get back here in a minute.”

Before Grant can follow up his shrug, the door opens, and a very, very impressive witch steps in. Not the one, he expected, obviously, she is sporting an air of nobility and lacking in the curly hair department, but it makes her no less of a burden, just now. “Andromeda”, Harry greets, offering no pleasantries.

She nods in both their directions and then announces, she needs to talk to him. Alone. Harry informs her, that this is probably out of question and not by his wish. For a moment, she eyes Grant, who is quite innocent of this specific crime and doesn’t deserve her wrath. Then her gaze shifts back to Harry, and she nods, arriving at whatever decision he is going to suffer.

“Very well. I want you to come for dinner, tonight. Your… shadow can wait outside; I will see to that.” There is no doubt to that… If Andromeda wants something, she won’t stop at him or Grant or even Hadrian to get it.

It is good thing, she is good-natured and friendly, most of the time… For as death-eater she would have been vicious.

Still… Harry is suicidal enough to disagree. “I won’t come. Just now, I have a lot going on… so I am probably no good company anyways…”

For a moment, she smiles, very much to herself and shakes her head. “We both know, I will bother you until you agree. So let us both save the time and just assume, I won, will you?”

Ah… that tone… Harry sags a little, realizing, he is beaten. He could, of course, go on and argue, but as she pointed out so politely, he wouldn’t make it. Andromeda is not a close friend, but she works perfectly as a mother figure, who could stare anyone into obedience, no matter, if he was 15 or 30 years old.

Andromeda doesn’t even wait for his answer, before she sends a satisfied smile in his direction and turns around to leave. “I see you at 7, Harry.”

Good, 7 means, Teddy will be present, defusing a lot of potential conflicts, before they could even emerge. Before he can ask anything else, she is gone…

Harry groans. “I am sorry, Grant, that will be an unpleasant evening for both of us.”

The other auror smiles radiantly and shrugs. “I don’t know… You underestimate the power of positive thinking…” That makes Harry eye him in mock-suspicion. Strange. Where Verbanian Dewdrop puts hard work into a seemingly serene attitude and jumps in one go right to annoying, Fennimore Grant wears whatever smile with ease. And still manages to be good company. He even magicks Harry into smiling back. Strange.

\------

It’s freezing cold outside, as they near the now quite visible Grimmault Place, and Harry feels actually sorry for Grant. But the other auror does not seem to mind much, and hints on the other side of the street, showing Harry an over-night-café. “I will wait there, I guess…” Then, with a wave, he leaves Harry to his own devices.

Dinner with Andromeda… Oh well…

Reluctantly, Harry chimes the doorbell, reluctantly he enters, when Kreacher’s moody stature opens. He doesn’t look at the house elf, he doesn’t look around. Although Andromeda changed a lot and added her own touch to the house, there are still too many echoes of the past clinging to the shadows here.

Sirius, Remus… Tonks… even Severus. It’s not like he doesn’t like Andromeda. She combines the best of Molly Weasley and Sirius Black into one unique mixture that is both absolutely charming and fully disarming. But the house…

Before his thoughts get too gloomy, she is there, to lighten the mood and directs him to a table set up for two. So, no Teddy then.

Harry sighs and tries to figure out, what this is about. What the hell can be so important and secretive, she cannot discuss it in the auror office? The times of Voldemort are over, for Merlin’s sake.

“I have a gift for you”, she finally announces, only sitting down at the very front of her seat, not touching her plate and cutlery. She can see in Harry’s face, he isn’t interested, though too polite to say so. “A kiss.”

And before he can realize, what the hell that means, warm arms wrap around him, a warm body presses against his back and warm lips trace the line of his neck. “Draco!” Harry can’t help but lean back, relaxing, no melting, into the hug. His eyes close, all by themselves and a smile fights its way onto his lips.

He can hear Andromeda get up and leave, yet, he cannot bring himself to even open his eyes or say goodbye or thank you, or anything at all. All he can do, is turn around, putting his own arms around Draco’s body, burying his hands into the white-blond hair.

“Harry.” A whisper, full of desperation and tenderness and hunger, followed by a searing kiss. For a long while, there is nothing else to say. Harry’s mind is completely empty and pure instinct makes him draw Draco even closer, pressing their foreheads together and then rubbing his against anything in reach, Draco’s neck and shoulder and arm… taking in the scent, the feeling, the warmth.

\-----

It’s adorable to watch Harry so out of his mind, so eager and needy and Draco lets him take his time to reacquaint himself. But then, unfortunately he needs to interrupt. Carefully he puts some distance between them and sighs. “Aunt Andromeda made me promise to have you eat first. And she will hold me personally responsible, if you don’t.”

That gets a chuckle out of his boyfriend…. Hell… it’s the first time, he thinks that, and it feels so good. Boyfriend… It smells a bit too much like teenage hormones, but for now, that’s fine. His stomach flutters anyways, just by the mere presence of Harry, so it’s an actual sacrifice to have him sit down and place himself at the opposite side of the table. Aunt Andromeda and her old-fashioned decency…

But then again: he depends on her good-will to see Harry at all. Without her protection, there will be no safe space to meet, where no one will notice. So, he is willing to make compromises and stick to banter, while Harry eats with rosy cheeks and a smile on his face, that almost makes up for the obvious signs of exhaustion.

Still, Harry looks like a walking ghost. Those days took the rest of his strength. He isn’t pretending anymore, he is all open, and by now, Draco knows, that means, he was pushed too far, much too far, this time. For minutes, he just watches him, eating, breathing, smiling and must suppress the urge to embrace him, to hide him away from the world and protect him.

How can anybody not see this? How can they cruelly continue to beat him up, like he can take it, when he is already lying on the ground?

Silently he stands up and walks over, resting his hands on Harry’s shoulders, squeezing tenderly, whispering into his ear: “Relax.”

And Harry does… His eyelids shut again, his head lolls back. “I love you”, he breathes, while his hands find the sides of Draco’s legs.

Draco places a kiss on his forehead and remains in place, holding him, just for a moment… so little time, where he could stay like this forever. Soon, the auror tasked to watch Harry, waiting across the street will grow impatient. Soon he will have to leave… So little time. Unbidden tears creep out his eyes, and he moves just enough, so they don’t fall on Harry. Lets him have this moment of peace.

\----

Reality comes crashing in all to soon. The time he has agreed with Grant is up, he must go. Has to let go of Draco, bide Andromeda goodbye, leave. He barely registers, how she tells him, he can come back anytime. He closes the door behind him, sinking down onto the steps, helplessly sobbing, his face buried in his hands. He can’t even stop it, when he hears footsteps, his breath is still hiccupping wildly, his body shaking.

He can feel Grant look down to him, offering a hand. “So bad?”

Slowly he puts himself back together and rises, a shake of his head the only answer, he is capable of. Slowly, the walk side by side back to the office, although they could easily apparate. Grant doesn’t pressure him on, waits patiently, until he can talk. He pays him back in a small acknowledgement: “Don’t you have places to be?” The tone is conversational, the smile apologetic.

Grants shrugs, smiling. “Yeah, you are a terrible strain on my work-life-balance.”

After another long, surprisingly pleasant silence, when they arrive at the office building, Grant stops him, softly grabbing his arms. “Maybe you could stay overnight, next time…”

Harry watches with rising confusion.

“I mean… it is little, but… I can figure something out, with Andromeda Tonks… to give you two time…”

Time just stops, as Harry turns and pins the much more wide-shouldered man easily to the wall. “How? How did you figure?” Restraint reduces the volume of the question, but does nothing to strip it of the sharpness, as Grant raises his hands defiantly.

“Hey… I didn’t get my job for my good looks… Saw the pictures from the hospital. You weren’t angry. You were worried. Sad.”

“Out of my mind”, Harry adds sorrowfully and releases him. Suddenly he can’t even keep himself upright.

Grant pats his shoulder and opens the door for him. “Come on. It’s safe with me.”

Somehow, it is believable. Harry nods and steps into the hall, head hung low, tired and hopeless, walking slowly. Grant joins him, less like a supervisor and more like a guardian, earning him a whole bunch of bonus points on Harry’s internal list of decent persons.

It is no help, though, he realizes, as Dewdrop steps in front of them and sneers sarcastically. “Back from your scolding?”

Harry is too destroyed for this kind of shit. He ignores his opponent and steps around, but Dewdrop isn’t done and intercepts him once more. “I asked, if you received your scolding.” It’s not Harry’s fist, that breaks his jaw, though the newspapers will later say so…

\-----

Harry sleeps as if dead, and only wakes up, when Grant appears in the morning with sandwiches and an apology. Just when they reached an understanding, it is now entirely possible, he will be replaced as Harry’s supervisor. The only good thing about the whole incident is that Dewdrop was probably overheard, removing him effectively as next candidate for the job. It still might forbid any more visits to Grimmault Place, due to more prying eyes, and so they plot a small escape for the evening, hopefully before the opportunity is gone.

Grant takes care not to take any responsibilities that would hinder him then. He will need to obtain Andromeda’s permission to stay in the house overnight, so that Harry may too. For at least one night of undisturbed intimacy, before it all goes back to hell again.

At first, it seems, the plan is doomed from the start, as more and more “urgent” work is placed on both their desks. Obviously, Dewdrop has made a lot of friends within the auror corps. But, as it turns out, when Harry is actually doing some work, they make quite a good team, with Grants talent to find efficient shortcuts and Harry’s trained eye for details. It is late, when they finish their work, but by no means too late.

The rest depends on luck, for they had no chance to coordinate anything beforehand. Everything now depends on advantageous timing and Andromeda’s mood.

\-----

The invitation came as a surprise, resulting in Draco being late. It doesn’t matter. Aunt Andromeda is awake and points him to one of the more luxurious guest rooms, her house has to offer, without much fussing. She even smiles at him. That feels… strange. Pleasant, but strange.

Draco doesn’t linger though. The promise of a whole night with Harry, nightmares or not, is all too tempting, right now.

He slips into the room quietly, hoping against all odds, he will be asleep and unwilling to wake him. Unfortunately, Harry is as light a sleeper as ever and looks up to him, as soon as he tries to snuggle beside him.

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles, makes space for Draco and pulls him down beside him. Then they kiss eagerly, embraced and entangled.

There is so much, they should talk about, need to talk about. But neither wants to spend what little time they have on that, when the alternative is so much more physical. Feeling the other, skin on skin, hands and lips entwined. Listening to hushed breathing and stifled moans, small noises of arousal, passion, desire.

It soon becomes obvious, how starved Harry is, how hungry for Draco’s attention, how willing to give as much as he gets, too. Draco feels showered in kisses and touches and small delicate love bites.

“May I…”, Harry almost begs, gliding behind Draco’s body and cuddling him. In any other situation, Draco would hesitate. He has not done that ever before and despite Harry’s relaxed attitude, when he was on the receiving end, it still feels… dangerous.

But he trusts Harry. In principle… Plus, they haven’t had the chance to touch for a long time, and there is no way of telling, when they will get it again. “Yes… please”, he murmurs, melting into Harry, offering all his trust.

It is not misplaced. Harry handles “taking care of someone” seriously. His hands and lips are damn fucking everywhere and leave Draco desperate. Before he even starts preparing him for what is to come, Draco is already burning.

Harry on the other hand is patient, soothing and teasing in equal measure, keeping Draco at the sweet point, where he relaxes, letting go of all fears.

When he, after an eternity of pleasured suffering, presses into him, Draco needs to muffle surprised heavy moans. It’s not bad at all and it gets even better, when Harry, after some trying, figures him out.

Now, every little movement sends jolts through Draco’s body, and he can’t even say, why exactly, only that it feels ecstatic. Harry continues, also cupping his dick and stroking it and Draco simply falls apart.

\-----

When Draco leans over to find out, if he is awake and ready for a second round, Harry can’t help but laugh. “What do you take me for… A teenager?” He still reaches out and kisses him. “Besides… it’s a bad idea. You can’t take it twice. Hurts.”

Of course, Draco comes back with the obvious: “What happened to: it’s not real, if it doesn’t?” Harry had that one coming, he admits. Still. While Draco has no idea, what he is asking for, Harry has. There is no way, he will do that.

Instead, he turns Draco around, kissing him again. “If you need it so badly…”

Just, as he tries to dive down to blow Draco, the very one grabs him, pulls him closer. “In that case I get to fuck you?”

Fuck, Harry can’t help the sudden intense jolt of want, hitting him. This tone rings his bell and makes him all needy. “If this is, what you want, Mr. Malfoy…”, he answers, almost breathless.

Draco gets over him and pins him down. “I love you.” His tongue is killing Harry. The tip wanders over his jaw up to his ear and into it, until Harry squirms and yelps. “Please…” What the hell does Draco different than anyone he ever had before?

“Will you be good for me?”, he whispers, and Harry swallows hard, nods, unable to say something. At the very least, Draco is a fucking natural. And a fast learner. Harry has no choice, but to hand himself over. And it is worth every minute.

In the end, he even gets more sleep than usual. After that sweet torment, he is too tired for nightmares.

\-----

For the first time ever, Harry wakes him, before he goes. He sits at the bedside, already fully dressed, but takes his time to bow down for a last time, pressing his forehead to Draco’s and kissing him, deeply. The playfulness of last night is gone, the pressure of goodbye is weighing on his every movement. If there wasn’t some residue of joy, of hope, Draco would break.

Instead, he cups Harry’s cheeks, rising with him, embracing him, one last time, as tight, as he can, then lets him go. They both suck at words, but he feels, he is understood anyways… this is a common language to them.

Goodbye. I love you. Be strong.

Harry’s scent lingers, for a while, and when it doesn’t anymore, he is truly gone. Draco leaves the room then and doesn’t look back. There is nothing here for him.

He goes to the kitchen, where Aunt Andromeda already waits with breakfast and feels her questioning gaze, while he eats in silence. For the first time in ages, she seems content with him, willing to let him into her life, to help him even… Just… a little proud? Or is this too much to ask, and he just imagines that part?

Before he can conclude, an owl arrives, carrying a letter for him. A letter that after last night weighs heavy in his hand. He easily identifies the sender, Minerva McGongall and clenches his fists. He had forgotten about his request. Too much happened since then. And he didn’t even know, if _he_ wanted her help from the start. For him, it was always about Harry.

But now, the letter in his hands, he can see Andromeda waiting. She has no idea, what this means for him, won’t understand, if he doesn’t open it, doesn’t understand his fears, he may have to leave. He can’t go now, not with Harry in danger.

The text soothes some of his fears, merely stating an address in London and a simple description. An appointment has been made for him, not at the mind healer’s office, but at a psychologist’s. His former teacher assures him, he won’t have to hide the circumstances of his present condition, as she is a squib, but urges him to be honest and work on himself.

Draco isn’t sure, what to make of it, but hasn’t much to do but worry anyways. In his present situation it might come as a welcomed distraction.

\-----

“Tell me something about you.”

Draco studies his new psychologist shamelessly. With her job, she is probably used to a bit of staring. She looks surprisingly boring. Mouse blond hair, greyish brown eyes, muggle business outfit. Focusing on that prevents him from talking. He just doesn’t feel like it.

To be precise, he feels like calling of the whole thing, derailing it right from the start. He doesn’t know why. There is this strange vibe… he just can’t put the finger on it.

The woman, aged about 30, so close to his own, refuses to give up easily.

“Think of me as a supportive diary… It need not be important, for starters. Just… anything.”

“I don’t like you much”, he snarls, showing more teeth than he intended.

“That’s fine, I guess…” The tone of her voice carries none of the insecurity her words indicate, leaving another inconsistency, scratching at his peace of mind.

Again, he sulks mutely. The silence becomes all but unbearable. “Aren’t you supposed to do something?”, he eventually asks.

“Oh, I do _do_ something. I am listening. I am paying attention.”

Draco folds his arms and growls. “I don’t need that.”

“Then… what do you need?”

Harry. The answer is right there, unbidden, it clenches his guts into a tight ball of pain. He can control his face, but not his breathing, not the sudden urge to coil into himself, drawing his knees close to his body.

“Or… more precisely, what do you need from me? Why did you come?”

Focusing, he stretches out again, stares right into her eyes. “There is someone… important in my life. H…” No don’t lose yourself so easily. “Who is very unwell. I can’t help, if I… you know… don’t do something about my own mess.”

She cocks her head slowly, licks her upper lip, to buy some time. “Then you should probably talk about your relationship.”

Uneasily he does, cautiously avoiding the exposure of any identifying hints. Including a pronomen. And the more he talks, the easier the words come to him, flowing like water through a broken dam. All the frustration, all the fears come floating out, swimming in a sea of details. By the end, he has forgotten, what irritated him first and feels a weight lifted from his shoulders.

\----

There is a lot going on in the auror bureau, but most of it passes Harry without leaving a mark. Dewdrop has filed a formal complaint against Grant and him, though he has no idea, what he is accused off. Consequently, Grant is suspended and Harry is still on desk duty, even though something big is going to unfold. This might also be the reason, why no one new is appointed as his supervisor, effectively making Harry prisoner in his own office. He can’t even go jogging, unless he finds himself someone willing to join him. And those people are scarce, not because everyone is on Dewdrop’s side, but because they want to see, how it turns out first.

It is somewhat cowardly, but Harry refrains from making himself more enemies by pointing it out.

All in all, the situation leaves him bored, unrestful and dissatisfied, so it comes as no surprise, he soon has another unpleasant encounter with his nemesis… though he can’t really be blamed.

When Harry enters the gym, the damned asshole steps in his way, effectively blocking him. “You are not supposed to be here!”

Harry looks up and down his opponent unimpressed and counters: “I can’t image, I can do much harm with so many attentive aurors watching me.”

Of course, Dewdrop doesn’t budge, even raises the stakes. “Aurors, who are supposed to train, not to watch your sorry ass.” With that, he steps forward, to the door, “accidentally” grazing harry with his shoulders.

On Harry’s “So am I”, his pals close in, and of course, it is pure coincidence, they want to leave the room just now. And of course, they are terribly sorry, Harry ends up on the ground, a few bruises richer.

Everybody is watching. Everybody is on the edge. Some hope, Harry will fight, so they have a reason to add more of those. Some hope, he finds a way to put Dewdrop in his place. Some simply hope, nothing happens.

But, although the ball is in Harry’s field, he can only loose on that one. If he fights, there will be reason for the damned complaint, adding even more points on Harry’s list of misdeeds. And if he doesn’t, they will go further next time, provoke him, until he can take no more.

All he can do, is chose his pain. And that, he doesn’t. He ignores them all, while systematically reducing training dummies to splinters, until his body burns in exhaustion. All to make him tired, to make him sleep, to make him not lose his temper.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas holidays are no fun under house arrest. Or are they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun to write and we are getting somewhere...

It is a stupid homework. First, he is a fucking adult, not some unruly pupil! And second… writing letters, that are explicitly meant, _not_ to be send… To people, who might not even be alive anymore, or severely unavailable. Mom… Good old sucking Dad. It is stupid, really.

By now, he has been sitting over the parchment for half an hour, chewing at his quill, and none the wiser. Frustrated, he dreams himself away, goes back to Grimmault Place. Remembers the sound of Harry’s voice, when he sighed, hoarse from want. The smell of his skin, sweaty and warm. The tickling of his tongue on Draco’s collarbone.

Abruptly Draco opens his eyes, burning up between sadness and desire. All by itself, the quill starts scratching over the parchment.

“Dear Saint,

It’s been lonely since we parted. The family keeps me company, but it is just not the same, without you. I am mad from worry and from missing you. And I suppose, you miss me too and have nothing to keep you warm but my words. So, let me tell you: I love you.

No matter, how long it takes, no matter, who cold I feel, there will be no one but you.

You are beautiful and hot and perfect, and the mere thought of your mouth, your lips, your skin at my mercy renders me breathless. I love you.

Your faithful demon.”

It’s intentionally vague, because there is no way, he will not send it. The thought alone of Harry opening it, holding and reading it, smiling, makes his mouth go dry. He can do that. A letter a day. One lifeline, escape route, sliver of light in Harry’s life. One little pleasure for Draco, imagining, what it will do to him.

\-----

Harry didn’t expect Andromeda’s owl, yet, here it is, patiently waiting by his desk, after he comes back from his morning shower. He removes the letter, and when it does not move, understands, an answer is expected. That leaves him no choice but to open the letter immediately and read it, so he does.

Twice. And a third time for good measure, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Then he grabs his quill and answers, almost feverishly.

“Dear Demon,

I have nothing but your words to keep my company. But given the chance, I’d kneel before you, worshipping your very presence. If I am shivering, it will never be from cold, and always from anticipation, awaiting the touch of your hands, the wetness of your kisses. I die for you, every day a little, but thousand small deaths never add up to something, so I will have to wait, until I can lay them all before you, for you to pick me up and make me fall apart.

Saint”

He rolls it up, fixes it to the owl’s foot and sends her on her way, breathing heavy from pure desire, although no single word he wrote, judged by itself, was by any means dirty.

\-----

During the night, Harry practically prays for the morning, for his daily torture, for the owl. Every day, he waits, until it arrives, every day, he reads the letter and writes an answer, carefully encrypting all the things, he cannot say, which is fucking nearly everything. Carefully hiding away the note he received, too. One never knows.

And every day, thereafter, he is so heated, he goes for training afterwards, working out, until his muscles give up, followed by a very, very cold shower.

Dewdrop’s pals have tried ambushing him in the bathroom, three times. Each time, someone slipped unluckily… They gave up, after that. He appreciated the effort though, for the constant routine wears on his sanity. The only way, he can tell one day from the other is the surfacing of yule decorations, jumping from one room and desk to the next. They feel like nightmares, closing in on his last resort, for won’t that be fun? Yule in the office?

It’s a week before the date, when Thoribalt knocks at his office and shrugs, when Harry waves him in deadpanned. “I am sorry, Harry, this all is taking so much longer, than I anticipated, it is like someone is throwing sticks between my legs at every step.”

Harry is not sure, he believes it. Thoribalt Hadrian is not per se a bad boss. Quite the contrary… But he is man of procedure, unwilling to circumvent the rules, even, when necessary. But this time, he brings some news that, compared to the baseline, count as good.

“I arranged something though. When you are willing to allow it, I will make sure, Molly and Arthur Weasley can supervise you over the holidays. You would not be able to leave the Burrow, but I guess, it is preferable to this…” He waves his hand around.

Harry agrees. The Burrow will be all too busy during the holidays, with everybody coming home for a visit. But they expect him to attend anyways and the Weasley house is a comparably good place to be. Although Molly will rant all holidays about him being too thin.

\-----

“Each time, you talk about your… relationship, Mr. Malfoy, I feel more concerned about you.” That damn woman has no idea… Draco smiles at her, but below the surface, he is on the edge… If for once, he could be all that much of an egoist, as Harry once jokingly implied, he’d be sieging the aurors’ office by now.

“It feels really toxic to me.” What? Draco furrows his brow and looks at her doubtingly.

“How so?” The carefully neutral tone is not, what she wants from him, but he won’t expose himself so easily. Not after that statement.

“Your… partner… is only present, when in need of something. Assumes your availability. See Mr. Malfoy, abuse is not always physical. Emotional dependency can be just as damaging.”

This time, he does not repress his urge to laugh out. “You can’t be serious. My partner is the most considerate, careful, gentle human being, I have had the pleasure to meet in years.”

Her smile is unsettling and unpleasant. “That just adds to my point. You are starving for human attention, and they make use of it to gain power over you. And you put up with it, because you are still feeling guilty. Because you are not done punishing yourself.”

Draco imagines Harry’s face and tries to combine it with the image of a calculating, self-serving bastard, like the psychologist implies. It doesn’t fit. Whenever he lines them up, the likes of Voldemort, Lucius and sometimes Dumbledore and Severus creep in.

He still knows, how it feels to be steered, manipulated, misinformed. Harry is nothing like that. Is he?

“Are you saying, I should break up with them?”

“That…”, she smiles with all too obvious approval, “is exactly, what I was saying.”

So, there is that. If it wasn’t for the idea of the letter, that didn’t even work out as intended, he would dismiss her by now.

\----

Yule dinner at the burrows is a special kind of torture. Molly expects everyone to attend, no matter what. Hermione, although she broke up with Ron as soon as it became obvious, they did want quite opposite things for their life together…

Bill, no matter, where in the world he is working at on one point or the other. And Harry… of course.

At one point he asked her, why she was still inviting him, the thing with Ginny was gone before the war even ended and Ron and him… they have only ever talked at said dinner in years. Mostly very tense, for Ginny was very much opposed to be let down gently and keeps spitting sweet poison in his direction, especially since he is performing so bad and she does so well.

He got no answer out of that, only the implication, a charity case like him… well… Be so thankful Harry. But this year he is. The bustling of the Weasley family distracts him from the darker thoughts he started to ponder previously.

It hasn’t been so bad for years. Since right after the war, when he found no more purpose in his life, after he had served for the one, Dumbledore and Snape had prepared him for. It’s no good to ask yourself, if it was better, if it all ended.

Draco deserves better. When this is over, he will tell him. Tell him, how much he means for him. That he loves him, for real, and it gives him a reason to live.

But it is hard to think of death, while you balance three kids on your knees, each of them wanting something different. Or trying to follow three different conversations, each directed at and almost forcedly including you. And the gift-giving. Harry usually settled for small signs of appreciation, carefully chosen on what he knows of the person. This year, with his limited options has forced him into a more Weasley-like modus operandi, bulk buy, bulk gift. It still works, because at least he made sure, the sweets selected fitted the individual tastes. Especially for the kids.

This year Andromeda also attends… She was very much opposed to that just recently and so it comes as a surprise, she is there now. And Teddy, always Teddy, sitting by Harry’s side and grinning.

Harry is very aware, that both watch him closely, if for different reasons. Teddy aims for the right point to ask for a story about his parents. Or about everyone else.

Andromeda though… Is she here for him…? The question is answered, when she comes over, presenting him with red colored envelope and a complimentary smile, very much implying, where this gift comes from… and that she is a willing messenger. He can’t help but smile, tries to keep it low, so it doesn’t look too suspicious.

As soon, as he can leave for his room, he does… the reassuring weight of his envelope firmly in his hand until he can finally close the door and open it.

The letter is longer than usual and beautifully written. It starts with wishes for Yule and the by now essential assurance of love and desire. What follows, though is far less… ordinary.

“If I was with you, I’d place your hands above your head and make you promise not to move them”, Draco writes. Followed by an incredibly detailed and very much not encrypted description of what he would do to make Harry go insane. The terrible effect unfolds immediately and robs Harry of any chance of sleep for the night, bursting with pure, raw, intense longing, until he claws his own skin to make it forget the feeling of Draco’s kisses.

When in the morning the usual letter arrives per owl, Harry puts it aside for later and writes instead of his usual answer:

“Dear Demon,

Your gift arrived in time and was well-received in all its loving cruelty, for it gave me all you wanted, but, unexpectedly, refused me the mercy of relief. I am burning with desire.

Yours in flames, Saint”

\------

Yule was as hard as was to be expected, and by now, it is almost over. Only two more days before he is back to the ministry, before he will press to get this whole issue to resolution, lest he loses his mind. He can’t go on like that, he realizes and blushes, only thinking of the one unexpected thing that happened. Hell, it has been eight days now, and still, whenever he thinks of the letter, his mind goes places.

If it wasn’t for the company, it would be surprisingly pleasant, albeit awkward. But around a bustling crowd of Weasleys, arguing, laughing, playing, the thought of being luxuriously being taken apart by your boyfriend is… both positively freakish and dangerously distracting. If he, by accident were caught whispering “Draco” in _that_ tone…

Well, even the Weasleys understanding for his quirks has boundaries… Yet, the thought remains and is not easily discarded. Whitish skin and hair, pink, pink lips… Slender fingers, so experienced in teasing him.

Harry phases back into reality, when he is nudged into the ribs by George. “Yes or no?”

“Wait, what?” Damn, is he confused, and that around all the Weasleys, with Molly’s disturbingly piercing understanding of human nature, George’s attention for prank-worthy details and not to forget, Hermione’s intellect. Not good. He needs to keep it together or he will be found out and scolded like a fucking schoolboy.

“I wanted to know, if you mind staying at Grimmaults for a night?”, Ron asks, oblivious as usual.

Grimmaults. Fuck. Harry’s eyes widen, jumping from terror to hope and back to terror in an instant. And not because of the far past this time, but for more recent… memories.

“Andromeda invited us”, Molly explains and adds: “We want to visit the theatre. Of course someone will stay to watch over Teddy.” And you. She doesn’t say it, but it’s still there.

“I wouldn’t dream of making you change your plans”, Harry deadpans, carefully avoiding everyone’s look. “It will be fine.”

\------

Andromeda’s smirk at Harry earns her a hug and a whispered “Thank you”, that makes everyone watch in awe. Harry initiating contact is a sight to behold, he understands belatedly and slips into his room, blushing. Of course, Ron follows closely, pestering him, what that was about, but at this point is quite used to the fact, harry will ignore most of the questions anyways.

“So… I didn’t realize, you were so close to her…”

Harry shrugs, giving what counts as an explanation at last, as if that wasn’t suspicious by itself. “Sirius was her cousin or something. And she invited me, when I got lonely in the ministry…” And she is a hell of a keeper of secrets… One hug will certainly not be enough, when this is out of the closet…

\------

The noise in the house has died down by nine, everyone leaving for the theatre. Harry ponders, checking, who was left behind for babysitting, but decides against it, when he hears the soft thump of n apparition. Or to be precise: he forgets about it completely, when the scent of Draco’s soap hits him, even before he opens the door of the walk-in closet he used to appear in, for safety.

Harry does it for him, stepping closer rushed, and wraps his arms around him, presses his cheek against his lover’s. He can’t bring himself to say a word and his breath trembles happily.

The pure sensation of Draco’s hands clasping his hips and wandering upwards slowly, until the fingers tangle into the outgrown locks on the back of his head, leaves him defenseless. “You are here…”, he finally manages, forcedly focusing just enough.

They share a few breaths, without kissing, then settle on the bed, sitting aside, not yet falling.

“Where else would I be? I couldn’t think of anything else, after your feverish letter. Took me quite some persuasion to make Andromeda help again. She thinks, it’s too risky.”

“Can’t be helped. Or I go insane”, Harry admits, scanning Draco’s frame with urgent intensity.

Draco gets the message, and undresses teasingly slow, while jokingly complaining, it’s only his body, Harry is after. “Now you.”

Harry isn’t even half patient enough to mirror the procedure. He just shrugs out of everything at once, before reaching for his lover.

“No, Harry, that won’t do”, Draco stops him, smiling wolfishly. “I wasn’t joking, you know?” Harry can see him lick his lips on his uneasy swallow. “I will take you apart, bit by bit, dear. You are at my mercy, tonight. Happy Yule.”

\-----

It can’t possibly be only a few months back (and so very few occasions), that he hesitated, touching Harry like this, afraid to do it wrong. This is the one thing, where Harry is completely open. Almost suicidally so. Draco can read, what he wants from his face, eyes, lips. From the hands, clenched into the bed sheets and the head, fallen back to expose the vulnerable throat.

It is as easy as it is rewarding. Pushing him down, his hands over his head. Making him promise to keep them there. Kissing long wet trains all over his chest, ending in small hot bites just above the waistline, to make him squirm and moan in anticipation. Whispering sweet, filthy encouragements into his ear, while cupping his firm, delicious backside. Placing oneself on top of Harry, skin on skin, until helplessly buckles his hips, eager for release but unable to achieve it, but by Draco’s bidding.

A teenager, fucking hah…! The combination of penned up desire and enviable stamina allow for more than one could hope for. And Draco makes it last, only granting either of them a climax, when it would be painful to go on without.

He ends up sitting against the headboard of the bed, cradling Harry’s head in his lap, softly stroking his hair, watching him sleep.

It still feels strange, being so gentle, having all those embarrassingly fuzzy feelings, but it also feels damn right.

For a moment he thinks of the psychologist’s assessment of their relationship, then shakes his head, smiling. Toxic, inconsiderate, one-sided… Fucking no! If Harry is needy, it’s only because Draco wants him too… and arranges for it. Just, because he is so indescribably beautiful, when he cries out in aroused frustration, so unbelievably tender, when he comes undone.

A door lock clicking alarms him, all to late, for he finds himself face to face with a severely shocked Hermione Granger.

With what little wits he can muster, he makes a shushing gesture at her, pointing down to Harry’s sleeping form, then carefully withdraws himself, not to wake him. Lucky for him, she retreats at his sight and after a minute of frantic dressing and insecure hesitation, he joins her in the corridor, facing the inevitable.

“Granger…” His face is a mask of maleficent nonchalance, a striking image of his past self. Only, it does not suffice.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Then embarrassedly belated: “With Harry!”

He licks his lips nervously. Where the hell did his composure go? “Sleeping with him, obviously.” Just a hint of a smirk, yeah, that’s right. Show her no weaknesses. Yet, he bites his lip and folds his arms to hide the fact, he already misses Harry’s warmth.

“Obviously… so…” She checks him out, much less scared and much more perceptive than he remembers her. “To be painfully precise: how in Merlin’s name did you end up in this situation, specifically tacking into account the recent… history between you two?”

He coughs, avoids her gaze. Yeah, well done, Draco. A perfect show of confidence. “Let me put it like that: There is more to it than the story in the papers. And if Harry wanted it out, he would have told you, don’t you think?”

“Last time, I checked, it was still “Potter”. With an emphasis on being annoyed, as I recall”, she lashes out heatedly.

“Yeah, and last time you checked is about a decade ago”, he growls, painfully careful to keep the sound low. “A lot has changed since then, as _I_ recall.” He inhales a few times, catching his breath. “And could you _pretty please_ drop the volume? He could really use some sleep in there.”

Now she stares at him, fully astonished. “At last something to agree on.” It lacks the previous sting. Draco’s shrug dissolves the remaining shadow of aggression and leaves… yeah… what?

“So you _do_ care!” It’s half question, half accusation and he has no answer for it.

“Wouldn’t let a bunch of Weasleys and… such… judge on that.” The other word, the one, he once threw at her like a weapon, is clearly present, but he avoids saying it. Not because of the lost war. He couldn’t care less about the major opinion. It’s because of Harry. He would disapprove… and worse. What they have is primarily so complicated because of that word, and his parents so firmly establishing its meaning to Draco’s life.

He should have used it, though, for the implication alone lacks in impact, and therefore doesn’t wind her up enough to drop the topic in favor of an insult. “So… what is it then, exactly? Enemies with benefits?” Hah! He should have thought of that one. But he cannot bear lying so outrightly about it, no matter how much easier it would be. “Fuck off!”

“More than that, then…” Can’t she, for the ever-loving shit, just shut up? He refuses to further partake in this conversation and folds his arms once more defiantly. “Listen, Malfoy… I will keep this secret, for now… But I swear, if you do any more harm to him…”

Draco couldn’t be less impressed. Nothing, she can do, would hurt nearly as much as what he can and would do to himself. And both pale in comparison to what Harry does to himself on a daily basis, due to anxiety and survivor’s guilt.

“I tremble in fear… If you’d excuse me, now, I’ve got places to be.”

Not waiting for her answer and risking another tense exchange, he slips back into the room, hoping against all odds.

But Harry is awake and sits up, when he reappears, turns to the edge of the bed and sits on its side, pulling him closer. Draco feels Harry’s embrace tighten and Harry’s face pressed firmly against his stomach, a gesture more intimate and vulnerable than anything he ever experienced before. “Don’t leave me.” They both now, there is no way around that, for now, but Harry is allowed a little irrationality, in Draco’s opinion. He resists the urge to move, just holds him close, as long as it takes.

\------

To Draco’s displeasure the door clicks open a second time this night (not that he lets Harry notice) and her almighty disturbance herself reenters. “You leave now or not at…” The sentence stutters and dies a sudden and gruesome death as they come into her sight, both fully clothed this time, thank Merlin.

They just stand there, foreheads firmly pressed together, hands carding through each other’s hair, doing nothing but breathing and wordlessly saying goodbye for who-knows-how-long.

Even the sudden appearance of one of his oldest friends, who is, as far as Harry must assume, still oblivious, pales in comparison with this.

“What the…” This woman really needs to learn of boundaries. Why can’t she just once be discrete and fucking wait outside! Alas, it’s not happening, until Harry gives him a little shove out of the way and turns to her, not yet releasing Draco’s hands.

God, he could cry from only the look in Harry’s pained face. And hell, does it stop her from babbling. “Harry, I…”

“…wait outside”, hints Draco and pulls him back softly. The time is too short anyways, he can already hear the house waking up, with all those pesky disappointments for the wizarding world walking around. “Goodbye, love, I’ll come for you, whenever I can.”

They don’t kiss, again, only sigh. “Goodbye then.”

\----

A low and disappointing noise marks Draco’s leave and Harry’s new low point. Resigned, he steps out of the room, just to be pushed back by Hermione. She is all shuffling and moving and talking, and just so damn noisy. Breaks through the silence he shared with Draco, painfully. Harry this and Harry that and… “Harry, will you please listen to me?”

He focusses, breathing heavily.

“Calm down. If you really want to keep this secret as he said… “

She makes a helpless little gesture. “…you need to calm down.”

Damn, she is right. “Ok…” One by one, he straightens his clothes, fights the usual lost battle with his hair and forces his body into submission. Then, he faces her again. “Better?”

Her nod of approval is not very convinced, but she leaves it at that, giving him a hug, he would usually refuse, but needs right now, and desperately so. “Oh, Harry…”

He shrugs and tries not to cry. There is no way, he could explain traces of tears away. “It sucks, you know?”

Hermione remains silent for a change, lets him take his time to go on.

“I can’t let anyone know, and they get it all wrong, and… it just sucks.”

“But why? Why can’t you?” Oh, sweet Circe, she can’t possibly be that oblivious, can she? But there they are…

“Seriously? Just for once, imagine Ron walking in on us, instead of you…” Or worse… Arthur, who is getting bitter, with the years passing…

He comments her only half pretended horror with an unhappy grin. “See? That is why.”

And much to his surprise she just gets it and continues from there. “Is there anything, I can do for you?” Almost like in the old days. As if the distance between them never happened.

“I’ll let you know…”

Hermione nods tenderly and pets his back before leaving for breakfast.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry runs into a trap. But the allies he has made team up, to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while to figure out, how this works. Was really hard, but this weekend it hit me right in the face. I hope you enjoy. Let me know, if I got it right

“Have you thought about your relationship?”- “Do you think, this is healthy?”- “What would you want of a future relationship?”

It’s the same question repeatedly, politely masked with indifference. “When will you discard your lover…?” By now, he can spot the question after three words or less and starts imagining awful fates for the distasteful woman asking it. “It would be for your best.”

Bloody hell, she is nothing if not insistent. However, this doesn’t change how Draco feels. It only reminds him of the awful pain that rips right through him, every time he thinks of Harry. The need to touch him, to feel his skin, to kiss those soft lips. Even more irritating are more tender needs. To sooth his pain, caress away his tension…

Draco isn’t emotionally prepared for that kind of stuff. It definitely wasn’t on his father’s curriculum. And now this dumb shrink stomps all over it and thinks, she got it right…

Or does she?

Draco’s suspicion flares, making him all jumpy and nervous, until he can leave her office. Maybe she is giving him bad advice on purpose? Maybe she just wants him to dump Harry, because then he will be miserable again? Maybe that squib-thing doesn’t really work out and she has connections to someone hating Draco?

He eyes her, more agitated by the minute, his mind working on overtime, to figure out, how to test her. “What if…”, he finally starts.

“What if this isn’t about me alone? It’s about him as well?” Damn… him. For the first time, him. Already too much information revealed, and he is not even properly started.

“What if nothing, you imply, being unhealthy and toxic, is done on purpose? What if that is just, what remains of one wounded human being, after going through a war, where his friends died, while trying to protect him, leaving him alive? After sacrificing everything and more? After learning to forgive, even if it’s the hardest thing, he has ever done? What if putting up with this, is me, not being so goddamn egoistic, for the fucking first time?”

She stares at him, dumbstruck. “You…”

“Yes, I am fucking dating Harry goddamn Potter, and I swear, if one word of that gets out of this room, I will kill you. And I am not by any means, exaggerating here.”

She flinches, suddenly radiating embarrassment and fear by same measures. “I… thought… with your history.” That isn’t worth any answer, not even his look on her. He leans back in his seat, cards through his hair and sighs. There is one last curse to place. “If by any chance, he was to be available, I’d leave right now, and without so much as giving a single fuck.”

For the first time, the damn woman shows the real emotion behind her smooth professional face. She looks somewhat guilty, but not the way, he assumed she would. Not, like she was really doing it to hurt him. And she looks sad. “Mr. Malfoy… I really hope, you are willing to give this a second chance. For I am… confident, that from this point on, and with all honesty necessary from both sides… we… might be able to achieve some improvement.”

He doesn’t look, like he has any confidence at all in her abilities, but shrugs anyways. “I’ll give it a try. But I swear…”

“We have something called professional discretion, Mr. Malfoy. Whatever you reveal to me, no matter the nature of it, even if it included crimes or such, I am obligated to keep this between me and you. Strictly professional.”

He nods, wrinkles his nose in disgust at her and sighs. “Fine. I have nothing better to do, just now.”

\----

Fucking finally… Harry is not yet back to full freedom of movement, but at least he can go on his own again, at times… For a run, for eating… such things. He must leave notes and return on time, and it is pretty little time to get anything done, but who counts.

He strongly suspects, he is being followed, and he tries not to be bold, but… there is hope.

Yes, even now, that over the “joyous time” of Yule the paper press frenzy has died down, the ministry hangs on and want to “clear the matter completely”. But it is hardly his first brush with the authorities, which is, why this all happened really. Yes, he has been overzealous, yes, he tends to be stupidly, or rather, suicidally brave, yes, he has at times bend the rules to help someone out or make them stumble, whatever they deserved.

He still regards himself as a “good guy” and it’s about time, he can go back to doing good things. Starting of course with getting back to top form. So, he goes for a run each morning, at a pace his doubtlessly present shadow isn’t going to appreciate. He’d go flying, too, but London is not the best place to start with that… just too many eyes.

Furthermore, there are rumors about certain disappearances from Azkaban and if anything turns up and he can go back to full duty, a good speed on the ground is much preferable to relying on a broom. And finally, running clears the head. He can think of training afterwards, of reducing a dummy to shreds, of the constant flow of the physical routine. And of the ache afterwards, the tension in the muscles so very much alike to that after a good night of… Draco.

Even the thought makes him smile. Once he is rid of the constant attention of the ministry, he can go back to him. And this time, nothing will make him leave that bed, that room, that man. He will touch him, kiss him, devour him, conjuring all those moans and groans and sighs, he can only dream of right now…

Damn, he will need a cold shower after this run. Very cold. Time to head back for the ministry.

Just, as he is about to turn around, he can hear something rustling in the bushes, startling him and triggering his battle reflexes. With one flowing motion he reaches for his wand, crouching down, looking for cover and a potential attack. Long seconds he studies the area, goosebumps on his back, the eyes flicking around in practiced motion. Nothing happens. Nothing happens.

Slowly, Harry straightens up, tucking his wand back into the sheath, taking another look, before turning back to his path. In this very moment, he can hear several movements at once, each from a different direction, to fast to react to all of them at once. He is fast, really fast, but not fast enough to block all of the Stupefies that hit him, one after the other. He hits the ground, face first, the pain stunning on its own, with no way to express it.

Hands pull a rough fabric over his head, pull him back into a standing position. More spells are cast, whispering, he does not get all of them, doesn’t know the ones, he can hear. When the fabric is pulled away, his eyes remain dark, yet the sting in his face disappears. Someone holds him from behind, an awkward mixture of an embrace and a choke hold, giving just enough pressure to his throat to threaten. “Dear Merlin, you have really outgrown your boyish clumsiness”, a voice, velvety soft, but with edges underneath purrs into his ear. He knows that voice. He will never forget it. Never. Malfoy. Lucius fucking Malfoy. It can’t be, can it? But it is… unmistakably.

He can’t answer, and he isn’t expected to, as Draco’s father, who definitely should be in Azkaban and not here, goes on. “A mutual friend asked me to assist you with your… downfall… Although it seems, you manage a lot of that yourself. It will need just a little… push.” Harry can feel his breath hitch and tries to get himself back together. Panic is not going to help, but Lucius leaves him no time to get back on track. “We both know, it won’t do us any good, trying to imperius you, don’t we?” His voice is now just a hiss, so low and threatening, it sounds almost like Parseltongue. Another bunch of spells are cast, not all of them by Lucius, then he hears someone screaming and crying, some distance away. “No, please, no, it’s not right!” A woman. No… what are they doing to her? He can’t see a thing, but her panic is real, if only he could help her. But the spells surrounding him are to strong, changing his muscles from the tense stiffness of stunning to completely limp. With ease, Lucius can pick up his arm, the hand still holding the wand… How the hell is it not slipping from his grip? Now, that Lucius grabs it, though, he can’t hold on… His arm moves with the flow, but it’s Malfoy, casting. “Avada Kedavra!”

He can feel the hot, gruesome energy of the death curse wash over him, tucking at his own magic, if barely touching it, while bloodcurdling screams fill the air, where the woman has been. He shivers under its slippery, spoiling presence, almost gagging on the disgusting taste it leaves in his mouth, as his wand is pressed back into his hand. Malfoy still guides his arm, holds his body upright, unknowingly and sickeningly mirroring the embrace, Harry loves from his son, safely tucked against Draco’s warm body, a shield, that keeps nightmares and loneliness at bay.

This is even more suffocating than the death curse, and when released from this grip, slowly, so he won’t hurt himself in the fall, he can feel the bile in his throat. He holds onto the coldness of the ground, as Lucius looms over him and mocks, poisonously sweet: “You might find it hard to tell people, this actually happened, as of course, I am well locked up in Azkaban, as everybody knows…”

As his presence slowly fades, so does the effect of the spells keeping Harry unmoving. His body stings and prickles, as he slowly regains vision and control, lifts himself from the ground. Before him, just visible between some bushes in the park, he uses for jogging, a dead body lies on the ground. For someone as experienced as him, there is no mistaking that. Thrown over him, lies a sobbing woman, probably the one, Harry heard screaming, oblivious to the world.

Around him, there is silence… and for the first time, since his very beginnings, he is frozen in place, not knowing, what to do. Only his wand slips from his fingers, falling to the ground, rolling away. Lucius is wrong. Surely, there would be a way to show, he was here. And he is right too. There is no way, Harry can tell anyone, what happened. He knows, it doesn’t matter, what is true, but only, what it looks like. And if Lucius was here, people will also believe, Draco was. Just, when he got his feet back on the ground.

So, he stands still. Breathing, waiting for the soft pops of apparitions, one after the other, when finally, the aurors appear, seizing his wand, taking him into custody. He lets it happen, unmoved, stunned, empty.

\-----

Draco paces the room in utter disbelief. Harry arrested. For murder of a muggle. It’s all over the papers. Big photos, a weeping muggle woman, separated from a body, wailing, they only had a small lover’s quarrel, led away and carefully obliviated. A group of aurors, encircling one unresisting Harry, standing in utter disbelief, staring, as if it doesn’t even happen to him.

No wand in his hand. It’s been on the ground. But the test shows clearly, it was his famous, unmistakable holly-and-phoenix-wand casting the spell. The bureau of aurors claims some ambiguities, but the paper’s opinion and therefore the public’s is clear. This is nothing but a fig leaf for the ministry’s utter failure in this case. It is so obvious, Harry Potter finally snapped, that, after all, his paranoia got the better of him, made him see danger, where none existed.

The signs were so clearly there. All his past slips, not to forget the very previous one, that only got resolved, because he, Draco Malfoy, didn’t press charges. To hell with them. All of them. Draco screams at the walls, at the portraits, at the very air of the room, until he is hoarse, until breaking down, sobbing. He thoroughly rips the papers into tiny shreds, burning up in his hands by the pure rage of his magic. He pounds his fists against the grounds, until they are bloody.

After patching them up – no need to scare Harry’s godson Teddy to death – he goes for Grimaults via floo. If there is one person, who might help be able to help Harry, it’s Andromeda.

\-----

“Dammit, Potter, what happened?” Grant is sincerely worried, Harry can hear it in his voice, see it patched all over his face. It pains him, he can offer no alleviation, but there is nothing to say. At least nothing, that will help. He can’t even admit, his wand was used by someone else. A more thorough investigation might point to Malfoy, and since the older is locked up in Azkaban… or should be…

He shrugs noncommittal. “Can’t tell.” So far so good… He hates lying to friends, and Grant is kind of being one… or at least tries.

“Can’t or won’t?”, he growls, unfortunately well catching the drift. Harry shrugs again and looks away. “This can’t be, what it looks like, can it?”, Grant snarls, continuously more irritated. “You wouldn’t just loose it like that. I know you better than that!”

But how would he? Not even Thoribalt thinks so. When he visited, it was just to pour his collected anger at Harry, letting him know, how badly this would reflect on his career. Why can’t Grant, like everyone else just assume?

“Listen… I won’t let this happen. Either you tell me, or I will find out on my own.” Fennimore Grant is a power of nature, when he makes up his mind like this.

Harry sighs. “Don’t. Just… leave it.”

Grant grabs him, shakes him, involuntarily leaving marks on Harry’s shoulders. “That means Azkaban. Even the kiss, if it turns out badly. You can’t want that!”

Harry stares. He knows. Of course, he knows. Though the former is probably worse than the latter, all things considered. He really can’t expect any friends at the prison… Unintentionally he clenches his fists, his jaw, his teeth. “I have little choice. Leave it. Don’t get into trouble because of me.”

“The hell, I will”, Fennimore snaps and lets go of Harry. “You tell me. Now.”

So Harry does. Very silently and on the promise not to tell anyone, he explains: “You won’t believe me. I wouldn’t myself. I was ambushed. Didn’t see anyone. They stupefied me… used my wand. And this sounds thin, even to me.”

There it is. Grant looks doubtful, disappointed even. “That’s the big secret? Then why didn’t you just say so? Fear, that nobody would believe you is just not your schtick.”

Harry laughs bitterly, another wave of rage rising and falling. “Or I just did it. I snapped. Not even sorry?” His voice is brittle like autumn leaves. He watches closely, can see the moment, when Grant can’t resist to hit him, anymore. He takes the blow, smiling. It’s better that way. “Goodbye, Grant. I appreciate your effort.”

\----

“Mr. Malfoy.” The voice is pleasing, the tone sincerely friendly. “Mr. Malfoy. A word, please?” Unsure, Draco eyes the man, who simply walked up to him, when he came back to Grimmault Place, after he did some errands for Aunt Andromeda. The man looks and sounds very American, which just makes no sense. What would someone from over there want from him?

Sighing, he gestures a “follow me” and enters the house. Putting the wards in place, he then turns left to the waiting room for guests instead of the main hall and sits down there. “I am listening.”

He assumes, the stranger has no manners and will sit down uninvited, but he merely paces the room, before eventually facing Draco. “My name is Fennimore Grant. I work together with your…” He obviously searches for a word, that just won’t come and gives up soon after. “I take it, you know, he was taken into custody?”

What the hell? Draco stares suspiciously. “I don’t know, who you think, I am, or who you are talking about.”

“Harry Potter? Maybe?” The American exhales and continues: “I accompanied him to some of the… meetings. I am worried. He’s been set up.”

No shit, Sherlock. Draco rubs his eyes, then points to a chair. “Take a seat. And then, explain yourself, or I swear, I will obliviate you into last year.”

The American smiles at that, less then impressed but sympathetically. “As I said: my name is Grant and I work with Potter. As an auror. He is accused of murder, but I know, this can’t be right. He claims an ambush, but after my colleagues walked all over the place, I couldn’t find any traces.”

So far so good. “Then, why exactly are you here?”

Grant’s face hardens. “Could you imagine any reason, why he would lie about the incident? Omit something, maybe? I just… I need a trace. Something to work with, something to follow.” He then explains, he has some hunch on who was responsible. But no motive, no idea of the why. And no reason, why Harry would let it happen willingly.

Draco remains distant. Suspicious. It seems all to convenient. To high the risk of the man lying. At least until Andromeda comes looking for him. She seems to know the man and greets him without hesitation. Her approval validates Grant. And allows them to start plotting. Slytherin style.

\----

Endless questionings, endless investigations. He’s so tired of it. The aurors do not torture him intentionally, but it equals just that. With what little time he has to himself, he can’t even fall asleep, his precious resting moments filled with nightmares, darkness, endless repetition of his waking hours.

It’s only the second day, and he can’t think straight anymore. It feels, like being drunk or being on a trip, minus the fun. It feels like a heavy blanket, minus the warmth. He is lucky, if it is Grant or Deemer, asking the questions, for they let him take his time and don’t pressure him. He can let his guard down a bit, they won’t try to incriminate him further. But mostly, he isn’t that lucky, and just now, it’s Dewdrop, sitting opposite to him, dripping poison, varying between screaming at him, until his ears hurt and whispering so low, he can barely understand him.

He, of course, is pressing for a full confession. But Harry has nothing to give him, nothing to offer. And he knows the tricks. All of them.

“Why did you kill the muggle man?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“How did you intend to get rid of the body?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Did you really think, you could get away with this?”

“You must be fucking kidding me.”

At least, swearing brings some life back to him. As does the coffee, some good spirit places before him, regularly. Mostly Grant, whenever he has the time. Sometimes someone else. He probably should check it for Veritaserum or something, but he really doesn’t care anymore at this point and assumes, they dosed him anyways.

\-----

Time is a precious resource now. With a crime like that, allegedly committed by an auror – especially this auror – the public will want resolve soon, or they cry bloody murder. And the wizarding ministry is nothing, if not accommodating to the public, these days.

Therefore, they have divided the tasks between them. Grant looks out for Harry, obviously. No one else can. He keeps them updated, too, but it’s a depressing issue, no surprise there.

Andromeda has the best relations to the wizards of the Wizengamot, she does… well… pureblood politics. Calling old favors, using hidden or outright blackmail, luring and backstabbing. If his mother is any measure to go by, she will do splendidly. Narcissa was vicious.

Draco himself has two tasks of equal importance. Find something incriminating about this… Dewdrop and swaying the public. The latter is so much easier. Just now, he sits next in front of one infamous Rita Skeeter, his Squib psychologist at his side.

“So you say, the damage you received was accidental?”

He gives the most dazzling smile, when he nods, so the photographer will obtain a nice picture and nods. “Yes, it was very unfortunate. The students surviving the Hogwarts battle often keep tabs on each other, and despite the public image, there are persisting animosities between the different houses. On one of the regular visits, Mr. Potter, Harry, if you will excuse the familiarity, discovered an interference between an artifact I was wearing and my magical mirrors. He tried to warn me, but as it turned out, too late. So, he did the next best thing and brought me to St. Mungo’s to allow treatment of my injuries.”

Skeeter lets him talk, on and on, which is a good sign. And he peppers her feast with some nice feisty (and untrue) details about his private life, to make the bait even more interesting. She also asks about his opinion on the present case and he refrains from blurting out, like a stupid little beginner. He squirms and wriggles, as if he doesn’t want to be quoted, before finally admitting, his belief, this issue is far out of character for Harry. And does it in such a quoteworthy, if “unintended” way, he is sure, it will make it into the “Prophet”.

It’s so simple. This is, after all, what he was born for, raised for. And he loves it.

The other task is much less forthcoming and much more annoying. Sorting out this Dewdrop guy. Verbanian sounds not exactly like a muggle name. And the society of wizards is not that big…

He finds nothing in the yellow press. The guy seemed squeaky clean. Everything he found in the papers about him, is work-related and pretty annoying in regard to find dirt on him. He is all the dazzling hero of clean police work, committed to following the rules to the letter and using as little violence as possible. If anything, he is too much an “Officer Friendly”. The family history is equally unsatisfactory. The family Dewdrop resides in Ireland since the 17th century, before that, they weren’t even wizards, their most ancient ancestor a muggle-born out of nowhere, at least according to the official registry. It irks Draco and it leaves him in a bad mood.

Frustrated he shoves the tome on family history he has taken from the Malfoy library up to his room back onto his desk. There is nothing in there. Nothing.

\----

“Mr. Malfoy”, the psychologist addresses him. Again. Damn him, for not canceling the appointment, when he is so clearly preoccupied. It really isn’t good for anything. But she seems more patient, since they had their row. “I know, this is a difficult time for you. Maybe it helps, if you tell me, what’s on your mind?”

“No, really… no…” he declines and sighs. “That wouldn’t help any.” Then he turns towards her, trying for the first time this day to concentrate specifically on her.

She smiles. “You might not be… particularly aware of it, with your history and your… orientation, but never underestimate the influence of female intervention… On the wizard and in extent on wizard society.” She looks smug and her eyes twinkle happily. Draco stares. Female. _Female_!

“You are a genius!”, he exclaims, abruptly rising and grinning all over his face. “See you next week.”

He doesn’t stop for her to remind him, their time is not over yet, just rushes out of her office and back to the floo he used to get here. He has a hunch and needs to check back at Malfoy Manor, tout suite, before the thought flees him again, and so it feels like a mere couple of minutes from the psychologist’s office to the safe space of the Malfoy library. There, he pulls all even remotely relevant books from their respective places, leafing through them and placing bookmarks for a more thorough investigation.

\-----

A few hours of reading, and what has been just a hunch now leaves a distinct picture on his inner horizon. He has checked each and every marriage of the Dewdrop family, he could find and with each, he grew more dumbstruck and almost horrified. Blacks, Malfoys, Selwyths, Rookheads. Each dark pureblood family he can think of – and a few, he could not – is closely related to the Dewdrops. Each has left at least one of their daughters in an allegedly mudblood family’s care. It just doesn’t add up.

Now, that he knows, what he is looking for, he also checks for births and deaths, disappearances and such. The pattern does not quite fit the usual generational pattern, families usually show. Of course, those are there too, but they have far too few daughters, mostly only a male heir and maybe some brothers. And occasionally an additional brother shows up, much too young or too old compared to his siblings. A very late child of a mother already done with childbirth. Or an exceptionally early child, leading to a rushed marriage. And in those cases, the childhood factoids are usually vague.

Draco creates a list of those, trying to figure it out, even obtaining pictures. They look nothing alike each other. So different, that no generational shift could explain it. This is… insane. That one… a Black if there ever was one. So similar to the pictures his mother held dear. That one… an unmistakable Gaunt. And that… Well, he could almost be a twin to Draco’s grandfather in his young years, only, he was born quite a while earlier. Just like….

Draco furrows his brow, then goes checking against the family chronic of his great and noble house. There he is. Jupiter Malfoy, sentenced to death after an escalated family feud with some minor, but untastefully loud family. Executed in 1765.

Finding this, it is easy, to figure out others. Loudmouths removed as their families’ heirs, yet important enough to keep around. Merited members of minor branches, sacrificing their good names for the greater good of the purebloods. And scandals. Of course. Scandals.

The Dewdrops are the grab bag of the pureblood families, magicking unsavory individuals into non-existence and providing valuable breeding stock. Holy hell.

Knowing this specific little detail, it’s easy to figure Verbanian Dewdrop out. Father Acealus Dewdrop, also known as Janus Pyrites. Mother Maleficia Greengrass, both deceased. Present in none of the wizarding wars. Allegedly. Joined the Ministry shortly thereafter, strongly promoting a rather soft line against offenders.

This is a clusterfuck of a man, and it’s all to obvious, why he would like to remove Harry from the equation. A convenient combination of revenge and further proceeding his plans to reinstate pureblood control within the ministry.

For a second, Draco feels guilty, that he is about to expose him, defaulting from his heritage once again, probably damaging years and years of careful planning on behalf of pureblood families. But then again… Don’t mess with an angry Malfoy… for he will be all smile, until he bites your ass. Or is that his Black heritage? He isn’t sure and he doesn’t care.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. And the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are, and it's a tough ride. I hope, I haven't been to graphic, but felt it needed some final explosion.

Grant is infuriatingly reasonable. Draco isn’t. He is just angry and very speedily nearing rage. “How can this be so difficult. He is obviously a spy in the ministry. And he obviously set Harry up!” It’s hard not to shout at full volume, but he tries. Grant is not the enemy. The procedures are.

“I know, this isn’t what you want to hear. But we need something solid. Evidence, not rumors and coincidences. This is no popularity contest.” Grant shrugs and goes over their notes once more, searching for something, that just isn’t there.

Draco begs to differ. With the Wizengamot created as it still is, it _is_ a popularity contest. And the old families have no liking for Harry. Too modern, too liberal, too much still the Chosen one, who made their champion loose the war. No matter, how insane Voldemort was in the end, nostalgia glosses over all the hard edges.

Only, this means, they don’t need evidence, but something even more rare. Some iron so hot, no one will want to touch it, for the danger of burning. Contemplative he chews his lip, for the moment ignoring Grants efforts completely and looks over to Andromeda, who is the best judge of character, he knows.

“What do you think. Once he thinks, he has won… will he gloat? This… Dewdrop guy?”

Grant looks up, appropriately alarmed. “Why do you ask?” He is a good guy, that much is obvious by now, but he is not a Slytherin, never will be. And a Slytherin is, what will be needed to safe Harry.

“So… will he? And can you bug him, without him knowing?”

At that, a smile is forming on Andromeda’s face. Not a beautiful one. Just now, she looks just like his mother. So much like his mother. She has been listening it seems. And approves.

\-----

Harry curses his rotten luck, once again. He was finally asleep, when they came to get him, earning him a kick in the ribs, a drowsily lose relationship with reality and a dull headache. He doesn’t resist being pulled to his feet and dragged through the corridors. Before they enter the public corridors, his ruined clothes are perfunctory cleaned with a charm, the bruises in his face healed just enough not to show on cursory examination. It’s just the stuff, petty minds do to ensure maximum discomfort.

It’s also the stuff, he would report, if they happened under his supervision. He is no stickler for the rules, but this is dishonorable. Only now, he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t really happen to him, does it? He distances himself from it all, enters a safe place, somewhere in his mind, watching his body break from outside, scolding at the barely suppressed sobs in his throat, embarrassed by the feeble stance. So much for going with dignity.

Right now, going nearly insane, his meta-thoughts have meta-thoughts. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t sad or mad or anything remotely human. He is empty. Dead. His mind already, where his body should have been for years. This is just a fitting end.

No more fight. No more fear. No more hurt. And all for a good reason. For someone worth it. Such a Gryffindor end, achieving perfection in the way, that no one will know of it. Not Draco, so he won’t feel guilty. Not his friends, so they won’t idealize him. Not the ministry, so they won’t create another martyr out of him. Not Grant. Hopefully not Grant. He doesn’t deserve this kind of bad conscience.

The torture of moving through the public areas can only be faced by removing himself even further. Not looking at the faces, full of disgust, disappointment, distance. Strangers, spitting on him, won’t matter in the end. Tripping and stinging hexes do little damage. Just another petty torture, not worth addressing. Despite all attempts, not to feel at all, it is a relief, when he eventually arrives at the chamber of trial, where the hateful screeches of the public are replaced by condescending murmur. He exhales, strangely light-headed, when he is placed in the defendant’s chair and the shackles attached to his wrists and ankles are molded with it. Silently he looks around, his gaze jumping from one purple-robed figure to the next, without noticing such elaborate things as faces. A smile tucks at his lips. It will be over soon.

\-----

Draco stays in the background, hidden in the shadows, Andromeda safely at his side to keep him from any rash action. He trusts her on that. Needs to, for right now, he certainly doesn’t trust himself. Seeing Harry like that, weak, devastated, hurt. Hearing his voice, monotonously confirming the basic facts, leaves him skittish and impulsive. He shouldn’t do this to him, shouldn’t add to his misery, but they found no other way, but this, no matter the toll.

So he grips Andromeda’s hand, lets her guide him, keep him back, as long as necessary, as long as Harry is speaking or mostly, not speaking.

“You admit, you have been in the park?”, the Chief Warlock asks coldly, and he just nods. “You admit, the killing curse was cast with your wand?” Another nod. “Do you have any excuses for the incident?” Holy fuck. This sounds, as if the judgement is already made – it probably is – and they don’t even bother anymore with putting up a show.

Only Andromeda’s presence of mind keeps Draco on track, sticking to the plan. So he just watches Harry shaking his head, resigned, unemotional. He watches, Harry standing up when ordered to, lurching out of the chamber at snail’s pace.

Only when the Chief Warlock announces, that the defendant has been removed on insistence of the speakers on his behalf, he steps forward, confirming this. He knows, it looks bad, as if he wasn’t trusting Harry to keep his mouth shut. But they will understand soon enough.

In simple words, using his best presenter voice, he announces: “It has come to our knowledge, that the defendant has been incriminated by a third party, willing not only to sacrifice the auror principles and the integrity of the ministry, but also directly opposed to its aims and practices. Said party, understandably unwilling to cooperate, is now under investigation by a trusted auror of the korps and placed into a situation, appropriate to show the extent of its corruption. Honoured wizards and witches, I invite you to listen to the actions, happening just now in vicinity of the defendant.”

Andromeda doesn’t smile, but the pride in her eyes is obvious to Draco and burns brightly, as he places the charm. When he steps back, he can feel her hand on his shoulder. He needs no other reassurance of her approval.

\------

Back to reality, he feels it. It’s over. He had done it and he is fucking done. It doesn’t matter he was set up. It doesn’t matter he didn’t do anything wrong. It doesn’t even matter anymore he still is the good guy. That won’t save him. All his answers damned him, all he could have added, would have incriminated and dishonored him further. The judgment was already made, his end scripted. And since his fate was sealed anyways, he chose to keep Draco save, uttering not a single word to his defense.

To add insult to injury, it is Dewdrop guiding him to the cell, where the defendants are kept waiting, when necessary, jerking brutally on the handcuffs and collar, until his shoulders are burning in pain. What a start. And if he isn’t very, very lucky, this can go on for hours, the questioning of witnesses, the jury’s meeting.

Dewdrop looks disturbingly happy for an auror, even considering, he is Harry’s enemy. “So, here we are, Potter…”, he gloats and shoves Harry against the next wall, pinning him, pressing his face into the stone. “Looks, like you are done, now…”

Harry doesn’t answer. No point in provoking him. Stays as motionless as he possibly can.

It’s not, what Dewdrop wants. He wants action, he wants resistance, so he can beat him to pulp. “Look, what I found, when we were searching your desk,” he whispers mockingly into Harry’s ear, waving some parchments before Harry’s eyes.

This… no… They were hidden so well… And they are fucking private… Definitely no evidence material. They are not even signed properly…. When he jerks away, Dewdrop laughs and drops the letters, spilling Draco’s neat scriptures to the floor. “I never knew, you were into stuff like that…”

Harry coughs and fights, for the first time, terrified beyond rational thinking.

He should know that this is, what Dewdrop wants from him. He should know that handcuffed and pinned to the wall he is no match for him. He fights anyways, gives Dewdrop any excuse to hurt him, break his ribs, bloody his nose.

When his resistance subsides, Dewdrop places the next blow. “I will destroy you. There will be nothing left of you. No fucking savior, no arrogant auror, no everybody’s hero. After me, you will need no Azkaban.”

“Why do you hate me so much…?”, Harry whispers, just barely suffocating a sob, when he feels Dewdrop fumbling with his trousers.

“You got it all served, you stupid, irrelevant little half blood. Never needed to work for what you got, everything served on a silver platter, deserving nothing. Always thinking, you are better than everyone else.”

With that, he tries to get himself ready, after Harry is already exposed to his mercy. It just doesn’t work. Harry is too horror-stricken to speculate on the reasons, too weak to fight back again, when Dewdrop throws him onto the only table in the room, scanning the environment for something to use instead. Something, that might and probably will make indefinitely more damage than his own… equipment.

Harry screams.

He is quickly silenced by several blows to his face, his head bumped into the tables surface, but by then, something has shifted. He is too gone to see, to understand, he only feels himself lifted, the handcuffs removed.

Somehow, Fennimore is there. He clings to his lap, he is held there, sobs helplessly, without tears, only dry, raw hiccups, bare of any thinking. He can hear some shuffling, but is unable to look up, his hands clench into the familiar uniform, where he also buries his face, shaking.

He can hear Fennimore’s voice, all but commanding someone: “Go! Get Malfoy! NOW!” He can hear someone leaving, it doesn’t make sense. Someone covers him with a cape, it doesn’t help, everything is cold, everything is dark, he must be dying, just doesn’t know, why, but he doesn’t, and the sobbing goes on, disconnected from him, as if it was someone else’s body.

Sometime later, he is moved from Fennimore’s lap to someone else’s. A familiar scent. Draco. It can’t be Draco. How can it be Draco?

It doesn’t matter, he holds onto it, drowns in it, still sobbing. It must have been hours. He should be ashamed of himself; he should really have some dignity…

\----

Draco lets no one touch Harry. And no one dares bothering them. After some time Grant, who cared for Harry first, comes over, hands him a cup of tea and sits with him for a while, just for company. Other aurors open the door, peek in shyly and vanish again.

They both know, this has gone much further than they ever thought. Ever wanted. Too far for Harry to come out unscathed. So, it takes ample time, until something changes for him. He looks up, lets himself get pulled closer, next to Draco, practically glued to his side. He doesn’t speak and Draco doesn’t make him. Just holds him. For as long as needed. The bustling of the ministry dies down, while Draco can practically hear the bustling of rumors rising.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. A couple. Impossible. Outrageous.

An auror under arrest, not Potter, this time, apparently.

“Let us go home”, he whispers into Harry’s ear, when he thinks, he is able to hear it, understand it, and gets a pathetic little nod in return. It makes his heart break all over again. Harry doesn’t rise without help, walks like a zombie. Draco holds him upright and Grant assists.

Since Harry doesn’t flinch, this seems to be ok. Together they apparate him home, to the manor, where Draco undresses him and tucks him into bed. This is _his_ home. And it’s Harry’s. He will not let him sleep in the guest room anymore, he will not let him pull away, again.

He has the distinct feeling though Harry won’t try anyways. There is nothing left to pretend. Harry is stripped to the very bone and it is his task and his pleasure to help him build himself back up again. It will mean a lot of strain. But it’s not punishment. It is hope. It is the building of a future. And he is ready for it.

\-------

**Epilogue**

Harry is safely tucked under his arm, sleeping peacefully for the first time since the trial. Draco doesn’t feel like joining him, instead prefers basking in the view of his lover, the soft tickle of his hair, the familiar smell of his freshly washed body. He has never felt so sure of him, Harry will stay. To love and be loved in return.

A sound alarms him, as the door opens, and a ragged figure enters the room, long hair no longer white blonde, but dusty grayish, no longer well kempt, but badly tangled, face no longer just slightly off, but fully insane. Lucius. His father. Damn.

Before he can reach for his wand, Lucius raises his. “Stay, where you are”, he hisses coldly, eying the body, flush against his. “First, I will deal with this scum, you invited into my house, and then, I will lecture you…” Draco clenches his teeth, carefully collecting any magic he can get hold of and preparing. When Lucius’ wand flicks, he is faster. “Protego!”

Draco isn’t exactly used to wandless magic, but what he lacks in experience, he makes up in despair. The charm springs into action, deflecting Lucius first attempt on Harry, giving him time to reach for his own wand. He can hear Harry’s breath changing, but it will take all to long, until he is awake, and Draco knows, he is no real match for his father, when it push comes to shove. Being naked, drowsy and having a vulnerable partner at his side, does not exactly tip the scales for the better.

Just, as he is about to pounce at his father in the vain attempt to do anything, the door standing ajar, opens just a bit more. “Expelliarmus!”

Andromeda, dear Merlin, Andromeda is here. Not at home, not with Teddy, still here, until Harry is better. Draco watches her entering the room, smiling dangerously sweet, staring at Lucius and completely ignoring both Harry and Draco. “So nice of you to come by and collect what’s due…”, she tells him, almost casually, waving her wand softly. Lucius does just, what Draco was about to try with him and jumps at her. Futilely. With an effortless “Stupefy”, she resolves the situation, flashes a smile at her nephew and levitates the now unresisting body out…

Draco doesn’t ask. He merely soothes Harry back to sleep.

\----

Full investigation. Enough authority to ask some rather unpleasant questions for a change. That’s nice for a change, though Fennimore knows, it cannot last. Still. Paying back a little on Harry’s behalf leaves a good feeling in his heart. And playing cowboy… well, he is American after all.

What he unearths though, is much less pleasant. So much dirt. All those little backroom agreements. All those little obstacles; placed just in the right place to isolate Harry. All those unsavory little blackmails. Sadly, even his extended authority only goes so far. He can convict Dewdrop and even arrest some of his cronies. But that’s about it. As per usual, the higher-ups deny any involvement and get away with it. Sad. But at least some good comes out of it. Soon, there will be an official path for complaints against – and from – aurors. And isn’t that nice?

\-----

When Harry steps out of the fireplace, his lover in tow, awkward silence arises. No word of welcome is spoken, no hand is extended. Ron just stares, Arthur clenches his jaw. Stubbornly Harry sits down right on the place reserved for him, dragging Draco to his side. Hermione pities them. The Weasley’s can be just as stubborn, and Harry hasn’t exactly given them a heads up.

And still… She remembers the strange streak of vulnerability, when she called Draco out. Remembers Harry’s face, that morning, after Christmas, when the Slytherin left. She does not fully trust the peace. Who would? But she is willing to give them a chance.

Gingerly she moves closer, sits down, right beside Draco and grins. “If you break his heart, I break your legs. All of them.” Draco chuckles, and so does Fred. It’s a start.

\-----

Andromeda opens the door to the library to bring in some tea and cookies. It’s warm in there, they like it that way. Carefully she peeks in, when suddenly a smile insistently makes its way on her face. There, before the fire, coiled into each other, are two bodies, intimately entangled, fast asleep and beautifully close. Hands are intertwined, warmth is shared. She closes the door, silently. Tea can wait.

\------

It’s been a year and a half, since Harry was here last, wearing the official auror robes. He has visited some, mostly to meet with Grant or help clean up some ambiguities, give his testimonial on the trials and such, but he hasn’t worked.

Today he will. And it will be fine. Draco smiles at him, proudly noting, there is no tremble, not the faintest hint of fear in Harry’s body. He will manage. With a smile, he cups his nape for a last kiss, then parts way. Harry goes for the auror’s office, while he heads deeper into the ministry’s bowels, softly caressing the words on his badge. Defense attorney. It has been a fight to establish the necessity, but Andromeda has been quite helpful and a lot of other wizards in high positions were suspiciously forthcoming, too.

  
It seems, even institutions as old as the Wizengamot can change, given the right incentive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, thank you for your encouragement.

**Author's Note:**

> Told you: shameless, no regrets here. I am pondering to continue, let me know, what you think.


End file.
